PAMQ   QTVY 

KAno'oI  I A 

and  othef* 

STRAINS 


IftJSB 


TRANS-STYX  AND  OTHER 
STRAINS 


TRANS-STYX  AND 

OTHER  STRAINS 

BY 

I.  N.  PHIPPS 

AUTHOR  OF 

The  Lay  of  the  Wraith  and  Other  Poems 


New  York  and  Washington 
THE  NEALE  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 
1907 


Copyright,  1907,  by 
THE  NEALE  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 


CONTENTS 

Page. 

Preface,    7 

The  Trance,  13 

Salvo  Pudore — By  the  Shade  of  Byron, 24 

Decadence  of  Poesy — By  the  Shade  of  Scott,  ....  34 

Te  Judice — By  the  Shade  of  Shakespeare, 42 

"Tetrastichs" — By  the  Shade  of  Khayyam, 50 

Sounds  and  Perspectives,   68 

A  Weird  Dream,   70 

The  Fisherman,    71 

Re- Awakened,    72 

Things  'at  Used  to  Be,   74 

Burial  of  Moses,   76 

A  Tragedy, 78 

Puncheon  Crick, 80 

Premonition,    84 

Hidden   Gems,    85 

The  Better  Way,    85 

Lake  o'  the  White  Canoe, 86 

Love,    94 

A  Violet, 9S 

Meeting  and  Parting,    96 

My  Sorrow,   96 

The  Doll's  Dress, 97 

Heart   Strains,    97 

Virginia,    98 

"Broke,"    101 

Buried    Hopes,    102 

Hope  and  Doubt, 103 


Page. 

Dan  and  Lil, 104 

Policy — Not   Love,    107 

A  Memory, 108 

Cupid's  Wiles,    no 

Faithless,    in 

Life,   112 

Looking  Backward,    113 

The    Poet,    113 

The  Banshee,    114 

Visions,    116 

Jephthah's  Vow, 117 

Sin's  Punition,    1 1 8 

A  Memory, 1 20 

My  Dead,   121 

Lost   Leoline,    122 

Bitter  Memories,    123 

An  Idyl,    124 

Address  to  a  Mummy, 125 

To  the  Frogs,    128 

Western  Plains,    129 

The  Errant  Dollar,   131 

The  Phantom  Thought,    132 

Epigrams,    133 


PREFACE 


It  has  occurred  to  the  author  of  this  little  volume 
of  verse  (he  is  scarcely  conceited  enough  to  believe  it 
deserving  of  the  more  dignified  title  of  "poetry")  that 
it  might  be  well,  perhaps,  to  preface  it  with  something 
like  an  explanation  by  way  of  fortifying  himself  against 
any  possible  adverse  criticism  touching  the  string  of 
epigrams  submitted  under  the  name  of  "Tetrastichs." 
For  his  attempt  to  imitate  the  poetic  stride  and  rhyth- 
mic motion  of  that  inimitable  Persian  (especially  in  the 
serious  vein  so  patent  as  to  admit  of  no  denial,  even 
were  he  a  mind  to  attempt  an  imposition  on  his  con- 
science by  essaying  to  take  refuge  in  the  claim  that  only 
a  parody  was  intended  on  that  famous  string  of  bril- 
liant gems,  the  ample  and  beautiful  translation  of  which 
into  English  the  poetic  genius  of  Fitzgerald  made  pos- 
sible) is  apt  to  awake  and  set  going  the  pen  of  those 
unable  to  see  beneath  the  surface,  or  read  between  the 
lines,  the  cry  of  a  lack,  on  his  part,  of  that  to  which 
he  certainly  lays  no  claim — originality.  For,  as  else- 
where clearly  shown,  he  denies  that  there  is  any  such 
thing  as  originality  possible  to  the  modern  "knight  of 
the  quill." 

As  previously  intimated,  in  "Tetrastichs"  no  parody 
is  intended.  On  the  contrary,  let  it  be  known  that  to 
this  writer,  at  least,  the  many  parodies  on  Khayyam 
partake  more  of  the  nature  of  sacrilege  than  of  legiti- 
mate humor,  seeing  his  was  evidently  the  quest  of  an 
honest  heart  after  Truth,  whose  evident  failure  to  find 
"any  Providence  but  Destiny,  and  any  world  but  this," 


gives  to  his  vain  hope  a  pathetic  coloring  that  merges 
into  the  tragic,  and  therefore  anything  perpetrated  in 
jest  at  his  expense  sounds  uncanny,  to  say  the  very 
least  of  it. 

"But,"  some  may  say,  "the  'Truth'  was  abroad  and 
far  advanced  even  while  he  was  searching  for  it,  and 
why  did  he  not  avail  himself  of  it,  instead  of  groping 
his  way  to  the  very  end?"  True,  quite  true,  but  at 
that  time  showing  but  dimly  in  that  far  away,  some- 
what isolated  corner  of  the  Orient,  up  and  down  whose 
narrow  confines  he  came  and  went,  busying  himself  with 
the  problems  of  futurity,  which  beset  and  harassed  his 
mind  to  the  exclusion  of  all  else,  it  would  seem,  but  the 
exhilarating  juice  of  the  grape,  which  he  so  persistently 
panegyrizes,  for  the  reason  that  from  it  appears  to  have 
come  to  him  the  only  relief  from  those  hopeless  yearn- 
ings which  kept  him  forever  on  the  rack  of  doubt  and 
uncertainty.  Yea,  showing  but  dimly,  as  we  have  said, 
and  rendered  yet  less  distinct  by  reason  of  the  one  and 
seventy  other  and  misleading  religions,  or  "lights," 
bobbing  up  and  down  here  and  there,  ignis-fatuus  like, 
in  the  all-pervading  gloom  in  which  he  found  himself 
groping,  with  scant,  or  no  hope,  evidently  realizing 
that  through  neither  of  those  religions  with  which  he 
was  most  familiar,  was  there  a  way  leading  to  ultimate 
peace  and  quiet  for  his  soul. 

Is  it  any  wonder  then,  that  he,  a  philosopher  in  the 
broadest  sense  (even  though  he  caught  an  occasional 
glimpse  of  the  one  and  only  "True  Light"  amidst  the 
many  others),  did  not  turn  and  follow  it  with  that 
simple  faith  which  is  the  key  to  its  precious  secrets,  and 
all  these  lead  to?  The  religion  of  our  Lord,  as  we  all 
know,  is  one  more  particularly  adapted  to  the  humble 
and  simple  hearted,  as  a  rule,  than  to  the  arrogant  and 


philosophically  endowed — especially  in  that  day,  ere  the 
full  effulgence  of  its  glory  had  burst  upon  the  world. 

Were  not  ninety  and  nine  out  of  every  hundred  of  its 
first  converts  from  that  class  whose  erudition  did  not 
extend  beyond  the  mending  and  casting  of  nets,  tread- 
ing the  wine  press,  or  sitting  at  the  receipt  of  customs? 
Aside  from  Saul  of  Tarsus  (who,  notwithstanding  all 
he  had  seen  and  heard  of  this  religion,  was  converted 
to  it  only  by  means  of  a  miracle),  scarcely  one  of  great 
learning  could  be  numbered  with  the  early  followers 
of  Christ.  At  least  not  until  the  persistent  preaching 
and  teaching  of  this  same  miracle-made  convert  had 
thoroughly  impressed  the  glories  of  Christianity  upon 
all  within  the  scope  of  his  mission,  the  sage  and  scholar 
with  the  rest. 

My  reasons  for  submitting  "Tetrastichs  ?"  Well, 
first  of  all  I  consider  this  particular  form  of  verse  one 
of  greater  compass  than  any  to  be  had,  and  therefore 
better  adapted  to  epigrammatical  productions,  to  say 
nothing  of  its  beautiful  construction,  which  makes  "the 
second  and  the  fourth  lines  rhyme  with  the  first,  while 
the  penultimate  is  a  blank,  usually  ending  in  a  word 
of  but  one  syllable,  and  seems  to  play  the  part  of  a 
slight  obstruction  to  the  rhythmical  flow  of  the  little 
current  of  thought  up  to  this  point,  coming  to  which  it 
appears  to  rise  gracefully,  curve  over  and  glide  down 
onto  the  final  line,  giving  it  a  pleasant,  rhythmical  end- 
ing not  to  be  found,  we  believe,  in  any  other  form  of 
verse." 

Again:  It  has  ever  been  a  matter  of  wonder  to  me 
why  one  of  Khayyam's  deep  and  extensive  learning  did 
not  include  in  his  contribution  to  posterity  bits  of  the 
folk  lore  of  his  own  and  adjacent  countries,  embracing 
some  of  those  innumerable  legends  and  myths  which 
constitute  the  only  available  history  of  "humanity's 


childhood,"  with  many,  if  not  most  of  which  he  must 
have  been  familiar,  and  it  occurred  to  me  to  avail  myself 
of  the  opportunity  which  he  and  others  seem  to  have 
neglected,  and  hence  I  have  taken  the  liberty  of  mak- 
ing his  style  of  verse  the  vehicle  for  sending  out  a  few 
epigrams  embracing  some  of  those  old  myths  still  trail- 
ing along  in  the  wake  of  the  centuries. 

For  the  other  efforts  at  verse  found  between  these 
covers  I  have  no  excuses  to  offer,  nor  explanations  to 
make.  If  they  do  not  of  themselves  reveal  the  pur- 
pose of  their  being,  let  them  at  once  sink  into  that 
oblivion  which  a  lack  of  merit  and  valid  reasons  for 
existence  make  inevitable. 

And  yet,  notwithstanding  this  play  at  indifference 
concerning  the  fate  awaiting  the  puny  offspring  of  my 
brain,  what  man  with  the  feelings  of  paternity  upon 
him  could  send  the  frail,  untried  little  ones  of  his 
mental  efforts  forth  to  take  their  chances  with  the  vig- 
orous, able-bodied  progeny  of  the  master  spirits  of 
Poesy,  without  some  sense  of  solicitude,  and  feelings 
of  commiseration  for  the  possible  fate  in  store  for  them, 
and  hesitate  to  beg  for  them  other  than  an  inclement 
reception  ? 

Therefore,  inasmuch  as  they  are  too  fragile,  weak, 
and  thinly  clad  to  withstand  the  rigors  of  an  over-cold 
reception,  and  too  timid  to  endure  a  too  acrimonious 
and  quizzical  scrutiny,  please  look  upon  them  kindly, 
and,  if  possible  to  overcome  the  aversion  their  only  too 
apparent  indigence  may  induce,  take  some  of  the  frailer 
ones  to  your  hearts  for  a  little  season  at  least,  remem- 
bering meanwhile  with  some  degree  of  compassion,  if 
you  can,  the  misguided  author  of  their  being. 

I.  N.  P. 


TRANS-STYX    AND    OTHER 
POEMS 


THE  TRANCE 

With  nothing  but  a  musty  tome, — 

An  oft-told  tale  of  Greece  and  Rome, — 

A  pencil,  tablet,  and  the  thought 

I'd  seek  a  cool,  secluded  spot, 

I  left  the  village  by  the  way 

That  led  to  where  the  woodlands  lay. 

The  path  lay  through  a  meadowland; 
Before,  behind — on  ev'ry  hand — 
The  grasses  waved  their  fuzzy  plumes 
Above  the  nodding  daisy  blooms; 
While  here  and  there,  above  them  all, 
Grew  snowy-tufted  elders,  tall. 

The  distant  landscape  softly  shone 
Through  sunlit  haze  of  azure  tone, 
And  fitful  sounds  crept  to  the  ear, 
Like  those  in  dreams  we  sometimes  hear. 

Beyond  the  mead  I  crossed  a  stream 
Upon  a  slender  Cypress  beam, 
Then  on,  and  on,  yet  nearer  to 
The  silent  woods  my  footsteps  drew: 
Toward  that  cool,  inviting  wood — 
The  Muse's  welcome  solitude. 

At  length  a  hill-environed  glade 
Offered  the  silence  and  the  shade 
My  eager  mind  and  body  sought : 
The  one  for  rest,  the  other  thought  ; 
And  here,  upon  a  bed  of  moss, 
With  restful  sighs,  at  ease,  I  toss. 

13 


What  soothing  draughts  kind  Nature  brews, 
Yet,  oh,  how  often  we  abuse 
The  hospitality  that  she 
Dispenses  without  stint,  or  fee — 
Consuming  with  the  glutton's  greed, 
Nor  rend'ring  back  to  her  the  meed 
Of  thanks  the  guest  his  hostess  owes, 
As  from  her  bounteous  board  he  goes ! 

Face  to  the  earth,  the  book  outspread 
Beneath  my  eyes,  I  laid  and  read 
The  tale  of  the  great  Caesar's  death  ; 
And,  when  his  murd'rers  struck,  my  breath 
Seemed  caught  from  me,  and  ere  I  knew 
Another  scene  broke  on  my  view. 

No  longer  on  the  earth  I  lay, 
But  drifted  on  a  cloud,  away 
Toward  a  moon-illumined  vale, 
Through  which  a  river,  phosphor-pale, 
And  one  lone  boatman  on  its  tide, 
Showed  with  a  sinuous  sweep  to  glide. 

Death-gray-green  willows  fringed  each  shore, 
And  I  could  hear  the  boatman's  oar, 
And  see  the  phosphor  as  it  dripped 
From  the  oar  blades,  as  forth  they  slipped 
From  the  pale  waters  which  they  cleaved, 
As  low  the  boatman  bent  and  heaved. 

Descending  slowly,  here,  the  cloud 
Touched  on  the  shore,  and  formed  a  shroud 
Which  clasped  my  shiv'ring  soul  around, 
Much  like  a  winding  sheet  is  wound. 


"Unless  my  fancy  plays  me  tricks, 
This  is,"  I  said,  "the  River  Styx. 
His  name  who  plies  the  oars —    But  then, 
What  boots  his  name  to  mortal  men?" 

Oh,  the  weird  murmur  of  that  stream, 
On  which  the  death-green  moonbeams  gleam 
With  that  unearthly,  awesome  sheen 
Which  ye,  doubtless,  have  sometimes  seen 
A  pent-up  storm  cloud  cast  before 
White  lightning  it  a-pieces  tore! 

Strange,  oh,  so  strange  was  that  moonlight ! 
Unlike  the  moonlight  of  Earth's  night, 
What  was  not  near,  it  made  appear 
As  if  it  were  indeed  quite  near. 

For  I  had  deemed  the  boatman  nigh — 
Conceived  I  saw  his  baleful  eye, 
The  while  it  took  him  long  to  reach 
And  bring  his  boat's  prow  on  the  beach, 
Where  I,  a  trembling  shade,  yet  stand, 
Till  he  leans  forth  and  takes  my  hand, 
And  draws  me  in,  and  takes  the  oar 
And  rows  toward  the  other  shore. 

The  boatman's  hands,  methinks,  were  cold ; 
His  form  was  bent,  and  he  was  old. 
Doubtless  a  million  years  he'd  spent 
Above  the  oars  where  now  he  bent. 

He  was  so  shrivelled,  gray,  and  grim, 
I  could  not  keep  my  eyes  from  him, 
The  while  he  droned  a  medley  strange 
That  caught  all  ages  in  its  range. 

15 


Not  till  my  feet  had  touched  the  shore 
Did  I  perceive  the  myriads  more 
Who,  like  myself,  had  lived  and  died 
On  Earth,  and  crossed  the  Stygian  tide. 

Countless  as  the  sand  grains  thrown 
By  the  waves  on  beaches  strown, 
Were  those  grim,  diaphanous  shades 
Swarming  through  all  those  Stygian  glades. 

Think  of  a  substance  walking  round, 
Casting  no  shadow  on  the  ground ! 
Though  shades  in  plenty,  not  a  shade 
By  any  substance  there  was  made! 

No  bubbling  springs  or  fountains  clear 
Were  there  apparent  anywhere, 
Nor  ever  dew,  or  mist,  or  rain, 
So  far  as  one  could  ascertain. 
Yet  these  were  'n  nowise  desert  lands, — 
Their  mold  was  moist,  and  their  sands 
Were  scooped  and  sucked  by  those  accursed 
With  ever  raging,  burning  thirst. 

That  some  did  thirst  and  others  not 

Gave  me  at  once  a  theme  for  thought, 

Wherefore  I  asked  the  reason  why 

Of  other  souls  convenient  by, 

And  this  is  how  they  answered 'me: 

"Some  sought  the  Living  draught,  you  see, 

Like  she  a-fore  at  Jacob's  well, 

And  have  no  thirst  to  quench,  or  quell. 


16 


"At  death  begins  the  punishment 

Of  whom  in  life  their  moments  spent 

In  riot-living,  heedless  of 

The  voice  of  conscience,  or  of  love. 

Hence,  these  are  they  who  weep  and  wail 

The  torments  the  like  sins  entail." 

Ah,  when  you  come  to  enter  there, 

Then  will  you  know  what  'tis  to  fare 

In  bournless  realms,  where  countless  shades 

Forlornly  roam  shadowless  glades! 

For  e'en  the  trees,  pellucid,  too, 

Allow  the  moonbeams  to  pass  through ! 

'Twas  easy  to  distinguish  those 

Whose  conscience  caused  them  endless  woes, 

And  all  as  easy  to  discern 

In  whom  abode  the  hope  etern. 

No  social  cordons  there  were  drawn  ; 
None  felt  to  sneer,  or  wished  to  fawn. 
The  pauper  cronied  with  the  prince, 
Nor  did  the  princess  matters  mince 
In  chumming  with  the  peasant  maid, 
While  countesses  with  Cyprians  strayed. 

Judging,  the  hopeful  sympathized 
With  whom  their  sins  had  ostracized, 
Nor  the  forlorn  seemed  envious  those 
The  straight  and  narrow  way  had  chose. 

The  greater  intellects  held  speech, 
Though  less  with  others  than  with  each, 
And  I,  in  time,  came  to  frequent 
Their  councils  to  hear  argument — 
For  even  humble  souls,  like  I, 
Were  nof  forbidden  to  draw  nigh. 

17 


Some  that  had  won  immortal  fame 

(I  need  not  here  inscribe  each  name) 

I  came  to  know ;   and  once  it  chanced, 

As  I  stood  list'ning,  quite  entranced, 

At  bits  of  repartee  'twixt  Scott, 

Shakespeare,  and  Byron,  that  the  thought 

Came  over  me  that  I  would  try 

To  mingle  more  with  these,  as  by 

Closer  association  it 

Was  possible  to  gain  a  bit 

Of  information  I  had  sought, 

By  ev'ry  channel  known  to  thought, 

Anent  the  latter  twain,  whose  rhymes 

Have  been  the  pride  of  modern  times. 

With  this  in  mind  I  quickly  threw 
Aside  my  diffidence,  and  drew 
Into  their  midst,  and  hit  for  hit 
I  gave  and  took  the  current  wit ; 

For  they  were  often  fain  to  jest, 
And  I,  though  hitherto  oppressed 
With  timidness,  was  no  less  fain, 
Since  thereby  might  accrue  a  gain. 

'Twas  thus  we  often  met,  but  I 
Grew  less  and  less  inclined  to  try 
My  wit  'gainst  theirs,  for  illy  fared 
Whoso  his  wit  against  theirs  dared. 

'Twas  thus,  I  say,  we  met  and  passed 
Much  pleasant  time;   but  when  at  last 
Came  not  the  secret  I  had  thought 
Such  intercourse  might  bring,  I  sought 
By  direct  means  to  gain  my  end. 

18 


And  so,  deciding  thus,  I  wend 
My  way  toward  the  rendezvous, 
Whereto  a  welcome  well  I  knew 
Awaited  me.    Arrived,  I  found 
Others  there  with  them,  on  the  ground, 
Amongst  them  one  Khayyam,  whose  verse 
I'd  much  admired  for  its  keen,  terse 
Satire  and  wit;   and  when  we  met, 
As  soon  we  did  ( for  here  they  set 
Much  store,  mind  you,  by  etiquette, 
And  those  little  amenities 
The  gentle-bred,  in  life,  with  ease 
And  grace  of  manner,  ever  heed), 
The  Persian  said  he  was  indeed 
Pleased  to  meet  one  of  whom  he'd  heard 
His  friends  once  say  a  gracious  word. 

Whereat  I  thanked  him,  and  expressed 

My  admiration  in  the  best 

Way  I  knew  how  for  the  quatrains 

Fitzgerald's  pen,  and  Vedder's  strains 

Made  possible  for  lesser  ones 

To  glimpse  the  beauty  through  them  runs. 

'Twere  tedious  to  try  to  name 
The  others  there,  of  lasting  fame, 
Nor  shall  we  so,  since  we're  concerned 
Alone  with  those  whose  names  we've  learned. 

When  came  a  lull,  and  I'd  acquired 
Sufficient  courage,  I  desired 
An  audience  with  Scott,  and  he 
Accorded  it  quite  graciously. 


Then  when  alone,  and  no  one  near, 
I  asked  him  if  he  thought  Shakespeare, 
Should  I  request  it,  would  tell  how 
His  writings  all  he  did  endow 
With  that  unique  aptness  of  speech 
The  like  of  which  none  else  can  reach  ; 
And  Byron  if,  as  some  insist, 
He  was,  on  earth,  an  atheist. 

Also  his  own  (Scott's)  views  on  things: 

Whether  the  modern  poet  sings 

In  measures  he  himself  approves 

(Ye  know  how  smoothly  his  own  moves), 

And  if  not,  then  would  he  comply 

With  my  request,  and  certify 

His  chief  objection  to  the  ways 

These  so-called  poets  sing  their  lays. 

Whereon  he  answered  me  that  he 
Was  sure  the  twain  would  pleasure  me. 
Since  they  had  nothing,  now,  to  lose, 
How  could  they  reasonably  refuse? 

As  for  himself,  he  said  he,  too, 
Would  do  the  little  he  could  do 
To  gratify  my  seeming  whim, 
Whereon  I  ended,  thanking  him. 

Returning  to  the  rendezvous, 
We  found  still  ling'ring  there  the  two — 
Shakespeare  and  Byron — and  one  more: 
The  Persian  mentioned  once  before. 


20 


Finding  them  thus  so  near  alone, 
I  lost  no  time  in  making  known 
My  ardent  wish,  and  hoped  that  they 
Were  not  inclined  to  say  me  nay. 

"I  spurn  the  thought — none  ever  heard, 
Methinks,  petition  more  absurd! 
A  gift  that  nothing  worth  conveys, 
Recipient  nor  giver  pays," 
Said  Byron,  and  his  earnest  air 
Made  seem  my  wish  should  illy  fare. 
"Fidelity  to  Truth  was  what 
They  of  my  time  condemned,  and  not 
The  lack  of  it,  since  they'd  have  had 
Me  show  the  good,  and  not  the  bad — 
Whereas  the  strictures  of  my  art 
Require  I  should  conceal  no  part." 

But  Shakespeare  took  the  other  view: 

"If  satisfaction  should  accrue 

From  being  wiser  for  the  truth, 

I  think  that  we  should  grant,  forsooth, 

The  little  asked,  and  more,  if  need; 

A  favor  wrought  is  friendship's  meed. 

As  for  myself,  I  shall  comply 

With  his  request,  as  thereby  I 

Shall  be  enabled  to  refute 

The  fools  who  would  my  rights  dispute." 

"Suppose  that  I  should  acquiesce, 
And  grant  the  favor  thou  dost  press," 
Quoth  Byron,  "thou  wert  none  the  less 
A  pauper  in  the  realm  of  thought 
For  gaining  that  from  me  you've  sought, 


21 


Since  thou  couldst  not  now  utilize 
What  were  on  Earth,  I  grant,  a  prize, 
And  would  go  far  to  gild  thy  name 
And  add  a  luster  to  thy  fame — 
But  not  in  Stygian  realms  would  it 
Add  to  thy  glory  one  wee  bit." 

Here  thought  succeeded  for  a  space, 
And  silence  reigned  in  speech's  place, 
The  while  the  mind  of  Byron  wrought 
On  whether  he  should  grant  or  not 
The  contribution  asked ;  and  when 
At  length  he  spoke,  he  said:   "But  then, 
Since  you  desire  it,  be  it  so, 
Provided  I  may  likewise  show 
The  light  esteem  in  which  I  hold 
The  preacher  who  regards  his  fold 
As  but  a  means  to  worldly  gain, 
Because  less  pious,  far,  than  vain." 

To  this  provision  I  could  see 

No  reason  I  should  not  agree, 

Except,  perhaps,  it  were  the  just 

Might  suffer  with  the  false,  whose  lust 

For  gain  well  justified  the  scath 

Which  they  might  suffer  through  his  wrath, 

And  therefore  the  contingent  harm 

Towards  the  just  should  not  alarm 

My  conscience,  or  abate  my  zeal 

To  ascertain  what  were  his  real 

Sentiments'  and  thoughts  anent 

Future  rewards  and  punishment; 

For  in  whom  such  like  thoughts  exist 

Rarely  is  found  an  atheist. 


22 


And  wheresoever  doubt  is  found 
Is  left  a  bit  of  fallow  ground 
Reason  has  failed  to  sterilize, 
And  conscience  may  yet  fertilize. 

Wherefore  I  waived  contingencies, 
And  readily  agreed,  as  these 
Succeeding  stanzas  I  transcribe 
(For  you  and  others  to  imbibe, 
Or  not,  accordingly  as  you 
Favor  deceit,  and  truth  eschew) 
Give  evidence  to  those  who  know 
His  cens'rous  style  and  caustic   flow. 


SALVO  PUDORE 

BY 
THE    SHADE   OF    BYRON 

'Tis  claimed,  you  know,  and  some  assert  with  causes 

Filthy  lucre  underlies  all  evil 
(The  proverb's  not  so  phrased — poetic  laws 

Warrant  this  phrasing,  if  not  the  civil), 
A  saying  trite,  but  dull,  and  ever  was, 

Howe'er  much  it  may  incense  the  Devil, 
A  supposition  which  I  question  much, 
Feeling  he  pays  but  scanty  heed  to  such. 

For  knowing,  as  he  does,  who  quotes  it  best, 
Is  he  who  least  of  all  observes  its  pith, 

And  that  an  adage  oft  become  a  jest 
When  it  too  frequently  is  dallied  with, 

And  therefore  loses  all  its  force  and  zest; 
He  looks  on  it  as  you  do  on  a  myth, 

Or  hoary  tale,  wherewith  you  would  coerce 

Your  children  to  be  good,  or  less  perverse. 

Now  much  about  my  poems  has  been  said, 

Some  lauding  them,  where  censure  was  more  due; 

Some  judging — not  because  that  which  they  read 
Was  unchaste,  so  much  as  because  'twas  true, 

And  which,  therefore,  straight  to  the  conscience  sped, 
And  like  the  old,  much-worn,  proverbial  shoe, 

Fitted  so  well  it  needs,  of  course,  must  pinch, 

And,  pinching  them,  how  else  could  they  but  wince? 

24 


Nor  have  the  sins  and  follies  which  I  then 
Held  up  to  ridicule  and  righteous  scorn 

Abated  in  the  least — women  and  men 

(Still  to  lust  and  lecherous  passions  born) 

Pursue  each  other  now,  as  they  did  when 
Young  Juan  was  by  Donna  Julia  shorn 

Of  that  which  in  monastic  day  a  vow 

Ascetics  made,  and  some  few  practice  now. 

I'm  not  the  moralist  you'd  care  to  quote, 
Judging  from  criticisms  of  my  work, 

Nor  my  religious  tenets,  when  I  wrote 

Of  current  things,  so  strict  as  some  who  perk 

And  preen  before  fashionable  flocks.     Note 
The  vanity  of  some  you  know,  who'd  irk 

Satan  himself!    Yet,  since  you  crave  my  views, 

I'll  show  how  worldly  pulpits  make  godless  pews. 

From  moral  apathy  and  placitude 

Comes  the  great  increase  in  ev'ry  vice  known. 
For  the  teachings  of  Christ,  where  understood, 

There's  little  respect  or  reverence  shown. 
The  Pulpit,  it  seems,  is  deeply  imbued 

With  philosophy,  which  of  late  has  grown 
Till,  in  the  arrogance  of  reason,  they 
Are  seeking,  'twould  seem,  an  easier  way 

To  Heaven  than  Christ  to  His  own  made  plain 
When  He  taught  humility,  and  contempt 

For  worldly  wants  and  material  gain, 
And  the  blessedness  of  being  exempt 

From  lust,  hate,  doubt,  hypocrisy  and  vain 

Things.     In  short — the  need  to  fully  pre-empt, 

Or  crush  and  destroy  ev'ry  evil  germ, 

If  one  his  faith  in  His  blood  would  affirm. 


Medieval  piety,   I  aver, 

Virtues  enjoined  of  a  goodlier  kind 
Than  to-day  in  Christendom  anywhere 

You'll  find  prescribed,  to  the  best  of  my  mind. 
Ascetic,  the  monk  was  perforce  austere, 

Rugged,  invective,  and  rarely  refined. 
Not  yet  he'd  learned  that  justification 
Came  alone  by  faith  unto  salvation. 

Protestants  sneer  at  Catholicity, 

And  I  myself  hoot  the  arrogant  claim 

Of  the  Pope  to  infallibility  ; 

Yet  I  am  persuaded,  indeed,  the  same 

Proscribes  things  Protestant  morality 

Countenances  with  quite  unblushing  shame. 

Even  detested  Buddhism,  I'm  quite  sure, 

Leads  them  in  restraints  that  maketh  more  pure. 

There  are  too  many  weaklings  who  aspire 
To  pulpits,  or  a  shepherd's  crook  to  wield; 

Who  lack  the  inspiration  and  the  fire 

To  reach  the  heart  and  conscience,  like  Whitfield, 

Bernard,  Jerome,  Chrysostom,  or  the  Prior 
Of  St.  Mark, — Savonarola, — whose  shield 

Of  righteousness  venalities  withstood 

Till  death  gave  him  the  marytr's  crown  of  blood. 

What  think  you,  sir,  I  pray,  of  that  man  whose 
Vesture  stamps  him  as  a  preacher  of  the  Word 

Who  seeks  the  busy  marts  of  trade,  and  woos 
Dame  Fortune  like  the  common,  godless  herd  ? 

And,  just  as  they,  figures  to  win,  or  lose 

(By  the  self-same  passions  swayed  and  stirred)  — 

Dost  wonder  that  the  church's  influence  wanes, 

Or  marvel  gross  materialism  reigns? 

26 


Many  there  be,  I  know,  who  will  disdain 
The  idea  that  the  charge  applies  to  them. 

Would  this  were  so,  and  thoughts  of  earthly  gain 
Were  as  far  from  them  as  that  diadem 

Which  those  who  fail  not  of  the  goal  attain. 
Only  the  faithless  ones  I  would  condemn — 

Those  only  who  would  live  by  bread  alone : 

The  faithful  by  their  godly  fruits  are  known. 

Yet  there  are  many  righteous,  I  avow: 

Shepherds  who  know,  and  of  their  own  are  known  ; 
Who,  when  they  at  the  throne  of  mercy  bow, 

Sooner  than  their  neighbor's  lot,  their  own 
Forget,  and  plead  as  only  those  know  how 

Whose  hearts  teem  not  with  selfish  thoughts  alone. 
Such  form  the  salt  its  savor  loses  not, 
And  live  to  bless  when  t'others  are  forgot. 

God  knows  I  love  such  blessed  souls  as  these, 
And  not  for  all  Heaven  hath  wherewith  to  bless 

Would  I  disparage  them,  or  them  displease! 
But  for  whose  tender  love  and  kindliness 

Far  fewer  heartsick  ones  would  find  surcease 
From  dread,  relentless  woe,  and  sorrow's  stress. 

Blest  be  the  voice  that  soothes,  the  hands  that  bind 

The  wounded,  grief-pent  heart  and  distraught  mind! 

Yet,  now,  a  little  farther  to  pursue 

The  matter,  nor  by  feint  or  dalliance  beat 

The  beast  about  the  bush  in  this  review, 
Let  us  see  if  we  cannot  find  the  seat 

Of  trouble — foregoing  censure  when  due, 
Applauding  merit  when  applause  is  meet. 

One  should  be  no  less  fair  to  foe  than  friend, 

Nor  treat  the  evil  harshly  he  would  mend. 

27 


I  deny  that's  always  success  which  succeeds. 

Take,  now,  for  instance,  religious  success: 
You  deem  those  religions  (regardless  of  creeds) 

Successful  whose  converts  are  numberless 
The  while  you  know  'tis  man's  ultimate  needs 

That  leads  him  to  embrace  religion,  stress 
Of  fear,  and  dread  of  punishment  for  deeds 
Done  in  the  flesh,  that  to  confession  leads. 

Now,  if  that  religion  be  a  vain  one, 

As  all  of  them  must  be,  you  will  confess, 

Save  and  excepting  that  whereof  the  Son 

Of  God  is  head  (whose  holy  name  we  bless!), 

Then  that  which  these  deluded  ones  have  done 
A  failure  is,  rather  than  a  success, 

Since  they  vainly  expect  confirmation 

Of  their  hopes  of  ultimate  salvation. 

Expediency,  the  Jesuit's  friend, 

Too  oft,  alas!  the  questionable  means 

Is  made  the  quicker  to  attain  an  end, 
However  much  the  conscience  intervenes, 

Or  persistently  declines  to  recommend 
That  which  a  subtile  evil  surely  screens ; 

And  unto  it's  apparent  quite,  if  not, 

Likewise,  to  him  the  end  alone  has  sought. 

How  many  preachers  expediency  use 
To  attain  an  end  they  live  to  deplore! 

I  refer  to  those  alone  who  abuse 

Their  sacred  calling,  as  opined  before. 

Some  resort  to  wit,  only  to  amuse, 

And  some  of  them  you  with  new  ideas  bore, 

While  some  to  sensational  things  resort, 

And  some  get  mixed  up  in  Scandal's  report. 

28 


Likewise  one,  for  the  sake  of  converts, 

Conforms  his  sermons  to  the  heart's  gross  trend, 
Not  heeding  'tis  thus  that  Satan  perverts 

Christianity  to  his  own  base  end. 
For  if  one  only  seemingly  deserts 

His  former  ways,  why  should  he  not  lend 
His  name  to  the  church's  roll  if  thereby  he 
May  swell  the  preacher's  popularity? — 

Which  is  all  that  some  of  these  worldings  seek, 

I  am  sorry  to  say,  upon  my  word, 
And  who  with  scarcely  less  lechery  reek 

Than  the  basest  roue  by  the  virtuous  feared. 
If  I,  aware  of  these  things,  failed  to  speak 

As  becometh  one  who  by  such  is  stirred, 
I'd  hate  myself  no  less  than  I  hate  those 
Whose  insincerity  I  would  fain  expose. 

I'd  started  a  moment  ago  to  say 

(And  that  I  did  not,  I  now  thank  Heaven!) 
Salt  without  savor's  society  to-day: 

Meal,  with  a  measure  of  Satan's  leaven. 
Yet  this  were  so  nearly  true,  I  pray 

That  a  little  grace  to  me  be  given — 
A  little  time  to  make  my  purpose  known, 
And  cast  a  dart  where  few  have  yet  been  thrown. 

And  what  is  Society,  but  a  curse? 

A  "School  for  Scandal"!  a  "Vanity  Fair"! 
Of  which  the  best  that  can  be  said  is  worse 

Than  the  worst  that  you  can  conceive,  I  swear! 
To  which  it  is  claimed  a  plethoric  purse 

Blinds  the  eyes  of  the  few  who  would  not  dare 
Do  the  naughty  things  her  votaries  do, 
A  charge,  I  am  sorry,  that's  somewhat  true. 

29 


You  marvel,  doubtless,  at  their  placitude 
Whose  lives  are  doomed  to  incessant  toil; 

Who  for  raiment  and  meager  daily  food 

Their  burdens  bear,  and  dig  and  till  the  soil, 

Content  to  feel  they  do  less  harm  than  good, 
Knowing  no  cravings  for  fashion's  turmoil, 

Or  those  base  pleasures  the  worlding  fain 

Would  barter  his  hope  of  Heaven  to  gain. 

The  only  way  to  happiness  is  through 

The  virtues  of  the  heart,  as  you  will  find. 

Social  frivolities  but  serve  to  brew 

Some  passion  that  debauches  heart  and  mind, 

Stimulating  cravings  for  something  new, 
Always  of  that  demoralizing  kind 

Civilization  breeds  once  it  has  shown 

Its  back  to  those  excesses  it  has  known. 

Mark  what  I  say,  nor  count  it  false  or  vain: 
Contentment  is  the  forfeit  one  must  pay 

For  riches  or  intellectual  gain, 

As  surely  as  the  night  succeeds  the  day — 

Unless  the  one  so  favored  would  the  pain 
Of  some  poor,  less  fortunate  heart  allay. 

The  heart,  or  mind,  which  on  itself  relies 

For  happiness,  feeds  on  itself  and  dies. 

A  paradox  in  life  is  clearly  shown 

When  wealth  denies  its  favored  placitude. 

Happiness  seems  to  shun  a  gilded  throne 
For  that  simplicity  and  quietude 

That  reigns  where  Christian  faith  and  love  alone 
Gives  zest  to  life,  and  grace  and  gratitude — 

Soul  auxiliaries  that  are  never  found 

Where  hate,  or  greed,  or  passions  base  abound. 


Oft  ignorance  with  greater  luster  shines 
Because  of  graces  Christian  virtue  lends, 

Than  radiates  from  those  transcendent  minds 
The  world's  perverted  to  ignoble  ends. 

The  faith  the  intellectual  giant  finds 
So  simple  'tis  obnoxious,  depends 

For  its  adherents  on  the  common  herd, 

Whose  simple  minds  imbibe  the  simple  Word. 

'Tis  passing  strange  the  so-called  great  revile, 
As  oft  as  not,  primitive  Christian  faith, 

For  which  those  blest  ones  who  looked  on  the  while 
Christ,  through  his  own,  removed  the  sting  of  death, 

Scourgings  forewent,  torture,  death,  or  exile — 
Extolling  Him  unto  their  utmost  breath, 

Declaring  He  alone  of  all  could  save 

Who'd  o'ercome  Death — the  monster — and  the  Grave. 

Much  was  my  Cain  condemned,  and  I  impugned, 
Because  I  dared  put  in  his  mouth  the  words 

To  which  impious  souls  like  his  are  tuned 
(Wherewith  a  pious  ut' ranee  ill  accords), 

As  he  with  crafty  Lucifer  communed, 

While  he  to  him  a  glimpse  of  words  affords 

Other  than  Earth,  and  myst'ries,  shapes  and  such, 

Causing  him  to  marvel  and  to  question  much. 

Should  one  pervert  a  work  of  art,  merely  to  please 

A  falsely  modest,  or  a  narrow  mind? 
'Twould  never  be  a  work  of  art,  if  these 

Found  not  the  fault  that  such  are  prone  to  find. 
By  all  the  rules  of  art  the  blasphemies, 

For  which  I've  been  persistently  maligned, 
Are  perfectly  consistent,  I  maintain, 
In  spirits  such  as  Lucifer  and  Cain. 

31 


That  unrepented  crime  of  his,  which  sent 

Him  forth  a  wanderer  upon  the  earth, 
Had  seared  and  scathed,  until  no  sentiment 

Except  blasphemy  in  his  soul  found  birth. 
Defiant,  scornful, — ready  to  resent 

Even  God's  overtures  of  peace,  the  worth 
Of  prayer  eschewing, — how,  pray,  could  I 
Put  in  his  mouth  other  than  blasphemy? 

Consistently,  therefore,  I  wrote  and  wrought, 

Knowing,  meanwhile,  that  fools  would  hiss  my  name, 

Impute  to  me  a  vicious  trend  of  thought, 
And  otherwise  attempt  to  cloud  my  fame: 

Wherefore  the  medium  of  satire  I  brought 
To  bear  upon,  and  put  the  horde  to  shame, 

Who  thenceforth  took  refuge  in  that  base  libel — 

That  my  views  were  adverse  to  the  Bible! 

And  though  apparent  misanthropy  ran 

As  threads  of  scarlet,  through  each  woof  I  wove, 

This  was  but  part  and  parcel  of  a  plan 

I'd  early  formed,  whereby  that  I  might  prove 

My  contempt  for  that  parasitic  clan 

That  lay  in  wait  for  those  who  'strode,  or  strove 

To  'stride  Pegasus,  or  follow  the  Muse, 

And  eked  their  bread  through  libelous  reviews. 

I  doubt  not  Time  will  kindly  place  me  on 
The  pinnacle  for  which,  in  life,  I  pined, 

Nor  my  reception  into  the  Pantheon, 
With  other  like  contributors  to  mind, 

Regardless  of  that  cursed  Don  Juan, 

Which  insult  to  sweet  womanhood,  I  find, 

Was  that  which  tore  the  laurel  from  my  brow, 

Which,  else,  had  clung  unsullied  there  till  now. 

33 


Enough  of  this!     Howe'er,  I  love  to  feel, 
Or  hope,  at  least,  it  kindled  no  desires, 

Wrought  no  evil  to  connubial  weal, 
Added  no  fuel  unto  passion's  fires, 

Whose  warmth  e'en  virtue  loves  too  near  to  steal 
(Because  of  those  sensations  such  inspires), 

From  whence  retreat,  alas!    she  oft  delays, 

While  she  with  the  new,  sweet  sensation  plays, 

My  old  Pegasus  is  as  fleet  to-day 

As  in  the  times  when  I  bestrode  him  last, 

And  fain  would  take  the  bit  and  speed  away, 
As  oft  in  that  somewhat  lamented  past ; 

And,  but  for  these,  awaiting  here  to  pay 
A  tribute  to  thy  wish — verses  to  cast 

Into  thy  eager  hands — then  would  I  heed 

His  eagerness,  and  bid  him  to  his  speed. 

But  as  it  is,  reluctantly  I  now 

Resign  my  charger  to  the  Scottish  bard, 

Whose  laurels  are  as  fresh  upon  his  brow 

As  when  he  trode  the  highlands  and  the  sward 

For  legends  and  traditions  to  endow 
His  poems  with  that  flavor,  'tis  so  hard, 

Once  you  have  ever  tasted,  to  forget. 

So  end  I,  now,  in  ending  this  couplet. 


33 


DECADENCE  OF  POESY 

BY 
THE    SHADE   OF   SCOTT 

'Twas  not  for  fame,  or  glory's  meed, 
I  sung  my  songs  on  Earth,  nor  greed  ; 
But  to  reclaim  and  still  prolong 
The  cadences  of  feudal  song, 
The  wand'ring  minstrel,  harping,  sung 
To  knight  and  lady  fair  and  young, 
Did  I  espouse  the  Muse,  and  string 
My  harp  to  minstrelsy,  and  sing. 

To  ev'ry  peasant's  song  mine  ear 
I  bent,  if  I  perchance  might  hear 
A  strain  of  those  expiring  rhymes 
That  thrilled  the  heart  in  feudal  times, 
And  made  the  wand'ring  minstrel  quite 
The  peer  of  any  lord  or  knight. 

And  often  from  these  peasants  came 
A  strain  that  lit  the  Muse's  flame, — 
A  quaver,  or  a  fragment  of 
A  martial  lay,  or  tale  of  love, — 
And  hence  it  was,  a  transient  note 
Often  inspired  the  song  I  wrote. 


We  here  upon  the  hither  shore 

Of  Styx  have  marked  and  much  deplore 

The  tendency  in  modern  verse 

To  cold  rigidity,  and  worse — 

The  absence  of  that  sentiment 

That  to  our  own  a  sweetness  lent. 

The  heart  where  sentiment  abides 
Holds  love  and  sympathy  besides; 
The  heart  where  these  have  no  abode 
Is  doomed  to  wither,  or  corrode. 
Savor  of  death,  to  death  the  trend 
Of  that  which  gladdens  not  the  end ! 

That  is  not  poetry  that  fails 
To  win  responsiveness — entails 
No  tender  thought,  or  hope,  or  aim 
To  do  a  kindly  act,  and  shame 
The  evil  tendencies  that  we 
Inherit  with  humanity. 

In  ev'ry  heart,  or  old,  or  young, 

Aeoleon-like  harps  are  strung, 

And  ever  these,  or  soon,  or  late, 

Responsive  to  a  touch  vibrate, 

And  fortunate  the  one  that  sings 

The  song  that  wakes  the  dormant  strings. 

A  benefactor  and  a  friend 

Is  any  mortal  who  can  lend 

A  meager  hope,  a  transient  ray 

To  light  some  pilgrim  on  his  way. 

How  many  hearts,  though  callous  grown, 

Are  softened  by  a  tender  tone! 


35 


Dost  wonder  at  my  scorn  for  those 
Who,  by  transposing  pleasing  prose, 
Construct  a  rigid  verse  they  call 
A  sonnet  or  a  madrigal? 
Shame  on  their  flagrant,  base  abuse 
Of  the  ancient,  glorious  Muse! 

For  they  have  crowded  her  aside, 
And  now  for  Pegasus  bestride 
A  golden  calf,  to  which  they  bow 
Between  effusions,  and  allow 
That  it  an  inspiration  lends 
Sufficient  to  their  sordid  ends. 

Look  through  the  Classics  all  and  find 
Now,  if  you  can,  something  in  kind 
Like  this  new  square-and-compass  verse 
The  modern  magazines  disburse, 
In  lieu  of  that  with  sense  and  pith 
We  used  to  pay  our  readers  with. 

Civilization  less  to  prose, 

Than  it  does  to  poetry,  owes 

For  its  languages;   and  the  molds 

For  thought,  and  love,  and  feeling,  holds 

Each  the  impress  of  the  Muse 

That  formed  and  fashioned  them  for  use. 

The  poet  fashioned  ev'ry  myth 
The  ancient  was  familiar  with, 
Creating  those  mythologies 
Whence  came  those  low  apologies 
For  Deity,  from  whom  they  sought 
Indulgences,  as  Nature  taught. 

36 


Wherefore,  likewise,  it  chanced,  in  time, 

Heroes  and  heroines  of  rhyme 

Became  the  models  for  the  art 

That  fills  a  niche  in  ev'ry  heart 

The  least  esthetic'ly  endued 

With  love  for  sculpture,  draped  or  nude. 

'Tis  true,  the  Pantheon  of  each  race 
Oft  held  some  hid'ous  beast,  in  place 
Of  those  fair  forms  the  poet's  mind 
Made  to  conform  to  human-kind — 
The  gods  and  goddesses  that  he 
Transmitted  to  posterity. 

Dost  thou  dare  say  the  faultless  grace 
(Both  of  his  creature's  form  and  face) 
With  which  he  fashioned  them,  in  verse, 
Inspired  not  that  served  to  coerce 
Man  from  barbaric  ways,  and  led 
Him  to  a  civil  state,  instead? 

Quite  true,  he  had  the  sculptor's  aid, 
But  who  was  it  the  sculptor  made? 
Find,  if  you  can,  some  record  of 
An  image,  ere  a  tale  of  love 
Came  from  the  poet's  fertile  brain, 
Then  count  my  boast  as  false  and  vain. 

His  heroines,  we  know,  were  lewd 
More  oft  than  with  chasteness  endued : 
Heroes  licentiously  endowed, 
And  at  the  shrine  of  Bacchus  bowed ; 
Yet  they  an  impulse  gave  to  thought, 
And  thought,  in  time,  for  virtue  wrought. 


37 


Hence,  we  maintain  to  poesy 
The  world's  indebted  for  the  free 
And  boundless  knowledge  is  its  meed, 
From  sciences  to  simplest  creed, 
In  that  it  gave  the  first  impulse 
To  learning,  and  the  nicer  cults. 

Yet,  with  this  to  its  credit,  now 

We  find  it  has  become,  somehow, 

The  plaything  of  those  shallow  minds 

Who  in  it  a  medium  find 

Through  which  some  tale  or  waggish  thought 

To  the  like  hearts  and  minds  is  brought. 

All  which  but  goes  to  prove,  of  late 

Mind  has  descended  to  a  state 

Of  material  thoughts  and  things, 

Denying  to  its  fancy  wings 

To  mount  on  high,  and  thence  explore 

The  realm  of  shadows,  as  of  yore. 

The  mind  that  haunts  the  marts  of  trade 
Alone  hath  rarely  e'er  essayed 
A  thought  above  the  lust  of  gain, 
And  therefore  by  the  golden  chain 
Itself  hath  forged,  to  Mammon's  bound, 
And  ends  with  him  life's  weary  round. 

Alike  by  man  and  Heaven  scorned, 
Is  ev'ry  man  who  has  suborned 
His  conscience  with  some  specious  plea 
To  cease  its  vigilance,  while  he 
Despoiled  and  left  to  shame  the  fair 
And  hapless  victim  of  his  snare. 


Yet  he  who  would  despoil  the  Muse 

Of  her  prerogative,  and  use 

The  modern  vehicle  for  thought 

The  growing  lust  of  gain  hath  wrought, 

As  much  a  subject  is  for  scorn 

As  he  by  whom  the  maid  is  shorn. 

Yet  there  are  some  exceptions  to 
My  charge,  as  there  are  still  a  few 
Who  court  the  Muse  by  the  same  rule 
They  practiced  in  my  time  and  school — 
Both  wit  and  poet,  when  they  would 
Say  something  trite,  sententious,  good. 

And  now  the  moral  laxity, 

Peculiar  to  Society, 

I'll  tax  your  patience  with,  and  time, 

Bad  as  I  hate  to  smirch  my  rhyme, 

By  making  it  the  instrument 

To  rend  that  rose  and  aureate  blent 

Scum,  which  screens  the  undertow 

That  bears  its  victims  down  to  woe. 

And  it  may  be  somewhere  beneath 
That  noisome  scum,  this  screen  of  death, 
You'll  catch  a  glimpse,  a  passing  gleam 
Of  something  in  this  hell-bent  stream 
Which  may  encourage  you  to  dare 
The  hope  all  is  not  rotten  there. 

Here  the  graceful  libertine 
Hero  is,  and  the  heroine 
Is  the  woman  who'll  advance 
The  farthest  in  loose  dalliance, 
Arousing  passions  doubtless  she 
Indulges  without  stint  or  fee. 


39 


Excessive  riches  pave  the  way 
To  idleness,  and  this  decay 
Of  ev'ry  moral  germ,  wherein 
Abides  a  counterpoise  to  sin. 
O  for  a  Paula  or  Jerome 
To  rear  an  altar  in  each  home ! 

The  public  conscience,  callous  grown, 

Scarcely  protests  against  the  known 

Evils,  which,  Briarean-like, 

At  ev'ry  moral  safeguard  strike. 

Better  a  stern  Puritanism 

Than  a  gross  materialism ! 

The  certitudes  of  Heaven  alone 
Afford  the  only  pleasures  known; 
Who  will  upon  them  may  repose, 
Scorning  alike  earth's  joys  and  woes. 

Scoff  at  ascetics,  if  you  will, 

Who,  through  stern  penance,  sought  to  kill 

The   evils   that   beset    the    flesh, 

And  weave  about  the  soul  a  mesh 

Of  self-restraint  and  abstinence, 

And  thus  against  the  Devil  fence. 

Rapt  in  sweet  reveries  and  dreams 

Celestial,  they  caught  transient  gleams 

Of  faces  wherein  radiant  shone 

The  Light  reflected  from  the  throne, 

Illumining  likewise  the  road 

Which  leads  from  earth  to  Christ  and  God. 


40 


Alas!  how  few  pursue  the  trail, 
How  few  beside  who  start  and  fail, 
Discouraged  by  some  trivial  thing 
That  did  but  prick  or  lightly  sting 
A  trick  the  Devil  often  plays 
To  lead  men  into  devious  ways. 


TE  JUDICE 

BY 
THE   SHADE   OF   SHAKESPEARE 

Who  to  original  thought  lays  claim 

Is  conscience  seared  and  a  deceiver; 
Those  ancient  wits  winged  all  such  game, 

And  not  till  I,  came  a  retriever 
With  aptness  and  an  amplitude 

Of  acumen,  and  wind  to  range 
The  fields  they'd  traversed  and  bestrewed 

With  rarely  plumaged  thought  and  strange 
But  fascinating  metaphor: 

Trite  and  striking  similitudes 
(Such  as  the  realists  abhor), 

And  airy  little  aptitudes, 
Which  from  the  unculled  fields  of  thought 

They'd  winged  and  left  to  lie  unseen, 
Till  I  their  reclamation  wrought, 

And  clothed  them  in  perennial  green. 

No  worth  had  they  till  we'd  descried 

And  put  them  to  poetic  use. 
The  pronoun  "we"  includes,  beside 

My  humble  self,  my  gracious  Muse. 

Some  yet  wore  the  swaddling-bands 

Their  nameless  sires  had  wound  them  in, 

Foundlings  and  waifs  from  divers  lands, 
Bereft  of  living  kith  or  kin. 

42 


Some  in  embryo  were  indeed, 

A  crude,  half  semblance  of  the  thought 
They'd  have  begotten,  you'd  agreed, 

If  you  had  seen  them  ere  I'd  wrought 
With  them,  and  'rayed  them  in  a  weave 

Made  from  the  threads  my  fancy  spun, 
Which  you,  sir,  may  or  not  believe 

Were  rav'lings  taken,  ev'ry  one, 
From  sayings  old — thread-bare  with  age — 

Which  in  the  dawn  of  Time  were  young: 
Decrepid  waifs,  some  ancient  sage 

To  his  untutored  friends  had  sung. 

One  scarce  can  over-amplify 

The  great  antiquity  of  most 
The  proverbs  each  posterity 

Of  each  succeeding  age  has  tossed, 
Each  to  the  other,  lip  to  ear, 

In  serious  or  playful  vein, 
On  obelisk,  or  parchment  clear, 

By  hieroglyph,  or  liquid  stain. 

All  which,  I  claim,  but  goes  to  show 

Nothing  is  new  beneath  the  sun. 
Old  as  the  ocean's  ebb  and  flow ; 

Old  as  the  day  when  Time  begun ; 
Old  as  the  first  gray  mist  that  hung 

Above  the  first  outgoing  wave; 
The  song  the  Morning  Stars  first  sung, 

The  blood  that  cried  from  Abel's  grave  ; 
Older  than  God's  Covenant,  far, 

The  rainbow  which  the  heavens  spans; 
Coeval  with  the  first-born  star, 

Is  each  and  ev'ry  thought  of  Man's. 


43 


Moderns,  I  grant  you,  have  evolved 

From  Nature's  subtile  elements 
What  Ancients  had  in  no  whit  solved, 

So  far  as  we  have  evidence. 
Yet  who  dares  say  their  minds  held  not 
Shadows  of  things  now  manifest? 
May  not  heredity  have  wrought 

The  evolutions  here  expressed? 

Who  letteth  unobstructed  flow 
The  spirit  of  the  times,  at  length 

About  his  mind's  abode  will  show 

The  fullest  growth,  the  greatest  strength. 

Man's  way  across  the  ages  lies, 

O'ercast  with  shadows,  flecked  with  light, 
And  somewhere  in  the  way  he  dies, 

And  friends  remove  his  corpse  from  sight. 
And  those  whose  welfare  is  his  aim, 

And  those  who  journey  by  his  side, 
Alike  forget  him,  and  his  name 

Is  lost  in  Time's  remorseless  tide. 
Age  after  age  has  gone  the  way 

His  face  is  set,  and  he  must  needs 
Find  something  meet  to  do  and  say 

Along  the  line  his  dest'ny  leads — 
Must  build  a  Babel,  or  remove 

A  mountain  that  obstructs  his  view; 
Delve  in  the  earth  for  treasure-trove, 

Or  whatso'er  he  finds  to  do. 

No  creature  of  his  handicraft 

Is  he,  the  creature,  able  to 
Endue  with  life  and  skill  to  draft 

A  semblance,  as  himself  can  do. 


44 


What  does  the  sculptor  with  the  stone, 

But  chisel  a  similitude? 
What  has  the  artist,  when  'tis  done — 

A  real,  or  an  imaged  wood? 
The  brick  wherewith  the  mason  builds, 

The  mortar  that  he  spreads  between ; 
The  gilt  wherewith  the  gilder  gilds, 

The  colors  in  the  prism  seen, 
All,  all  from  Nature  taken  were, 

And  fashioned  to  the  needs  of  man — 
Her  crude  materials  ev'rywhere 

The  artist  waits,  and  artisan. 

So,  as  the  sculptor  gets  his  stone 

From  Nature,  and  his  model,  too, 
The  artist  thence  likewise  the  tone 

Wherewith  his  pictures  to  imbue; 
The  mason  in  her  clays  and  sands 

And  carbonates  the  needful  finds, 
And  ready  to  the  gilder's  hands 

The  precious  metal  from  her  mines. 

The  poet  thence  likewise  repairs 

For  trite  and  telling  similes, 
For  sentiment  and  tender  airs, 

And  metaphor,  and  harmonies. 
Maybe  a  thousand  times  or  so, 

From  other  lips,  from  other  eyes, 
The  same  have  caused  to  play  or  flow 

The  smile  he  wakes,  the  tear  he  dries. 

Hence,  from  the  greatest  to  the  least, 

We  are  but  copyists  at  best; 
The  visual,  or  mental  feast 

We  toast  each  other  through  with  zest, 


45 


Others  partook  of  in  the  days 

When  Man  was  few,  and  Earth  was  young, 
Though  it  may  be  our  modern  lays 

More  rhythmic  are  than  those  they  sung. 

Wherefore  my  legacy  to  mind 

Was  not  original,  you  see, 
And  whoso  claims  new  thoughts,  you'll  find, 

Is  playing  your  credulity. 

The  poet  far  less  prestige  qwes 

Original  than  range  of  thought; 
The  fountain  which  to  fullness  flows 

Is  ever  the  most  prized  and  sought. 
Likewise,  he  to  tradition  owes 
More  for  the  glory  he  acquires, 
Than  to  the  written  page,  which  glows 

With  facts  and  romance  of  empires, 
Because  a  fable  it  supplies 

Wherewith  the  other  can't  compare, 
And  gives  his  fancy  rein  to  rise, 

And  fare  where  it  is  wont  to  fare. 

The  time  was  when  men's  wit  was  not 

So  hedged  about  as  'tis  to-day; 
Who  first  secured  the  brilliant  thought 

A  careless  wit  dropped  by  the  way 
Might  such  appropriate  and  use, 

Without  the  consequence  of  shame, 
Or  fear  the  critic  would  refuse 

The  meed  of  praise  that  gilds  a  name. 

The  wit  of  ev'ry  wit  of  them 

Was  his  who  had  the  greater  mind — 

Knew  best  the  sparkle  of  the  gem 
By  chance  or  fortune  he  should  find. 

46 


Illiterate  times  a  harvest  yields 
Of  sentiment  and  homely  wit. 

The  untaught  swain  most  deeply  feels, 
And,  voicing  love,  he  pictures  it. 

'Tis  in  such  times  the  great  appear 

Greater,  methinks,  than  is  their  meed; 

Absorbing  ev'rything  that's  near, 

With  others'  wit  their  own  they  feed. 

Even  the  foolish  sometimes  say 
A  witty  thing,  not  knowing  it, 

And  he  who  will  may  take  and  pay 
It  out  as  coin  of  his  own  wit. 

No  classic  known,  or  prose,  or  rhyme, 
Had  birth  and  being  in  one  mind ; 

The  best  of  all  preceding  time 
Were  in  this  Ultimate  combined. 

As  one,  a  thousand  minds  had  wrought 
To  crown  a  single  one  with  fame ! 

Through  centuries  these  gems  of  thought 
To  him,  all  cut  and  fashioned,  came. 

Even  the  sov'reign  form  of  prayers 
(I  shame  not  Him  in  saying  it), 

Ere  Christ  gave  it  the  form  it  wears, 
Had  served  the  Rabbis  bit  by  bit. 

To  Him  all  praise  and  glory  be 

For  plucking  from  the  dross  and  silt 

The  golden  words  that  framed  the  plea, 
Uttered  in  faith,  preserves  from  guilt ! 


47 


Scarcely  a  classic,  prose  or  rhyme, 

But  had  its  origin  in  Myth; 
The  heritage  of  farthest  time 

Is  all  you  are  familiar  with. 

From  India's  stores  of  myth  the  tale 

Of  good  King  Lear,  by  devious  ways, 
Crept  slowly  to  our  times,  and — stale 

With  age — the  Venice  Merchant  plays 
For  us  the  very  roles  he  played 

(With  Portia,  pound  of  flesh,  and  ring) 
For  those  the  Macedonian  made 

Acknowledge  him  their  sovereign  king. 

And  Peeping  Tom  of  Coventry 

In  India  peeped  ages  before 
Godiva  knew  his  lech  rous  eye 

Had  sought  the  key-hole  of  her  door. 

And  Johnny  Sands  could  trace  his  source 

To  Nineveh  or  Babylon; 
A  child  of  Myth,  he  came  in  course 

Of  time  to  strut  our  stages  on. 

Whence  came  the  art  of  ancient  Greece, 

The  sculpture  all  posterity 
Admires  no  less  with  Time's  increase? 

For  answer — Egypt's  temples  see, 
The  rude  relief  the  architect 

Designed  for  ornament  and  show, 
On  temple  walls,  I  half  suspect 

Led  by  degrees  to  sculptor.    So, 
Likewise,  the  minstrel  for  the  strain 

That  wakes  a  sigh,  or  starts  a  tear, 
Owes  some  winged  warbler  whose  refrain 

Has  caught  and  held  his  raptured  ear. 

48 


Boccacio  garbled  all  he  wrote, 
And  from  Boccacio  much  I  drew. 

Scarce  one  truism  people  quote 
To  its  reputed  source  is  due. 

Not  what  he  fashions,  or  designs, 
The  genius  makes,  but  knowing  how 

To  utilize  the  waste  he  finds, 

That  hangs  the  laurel  on  his  brow. 

In  each  succeeding  age  appears, 

Above  the  horizon  of  thought, 
Some  intellect  the  coming  years 

Will  crown  for  something  said,  or  wrought. 

'Twas  Wisdom  gave  us  not  to  see, 
In  youth,  the  rainbow  nimbus  hung 

About  our  heads,  and,  seemingly, 

Our  future  paths  with  garlands  hung — 

Else  had  we  clung  to  mother-skirts, 

Or  hid  beneath  paternal  boughs, 
Reluctant  to  endure  the  hurts 

Which  life  inflicts  while  it  endows. 

One  kindly  deed,  in  mercy  wrought, 

Will  sink  a  thousand  wrongs  from  sight — 

One  look  of  pity  oft  hath  brought 
To  hopeless  souls  a  ray  of  light. 


49 


"TETRASTICHS" 

BY 
THE  SHADE   OF  KHAYYAM 

The  thoughts  and  fancies  which  I  here  append 
For  your  acceptance  or  rejection,  friend, 

Are  merely  transcripts  from  some  scores  I  wrote 
Ere  the  grim  Ferrash  came  and  wrought  my  end. 

One's  mere  witticisms,  flung  in  jest  at  Fate, 
Or  morbid  tendency  to  speculate 

Anent  the  mystery  of  Life  and  Death, 
The  broad,  impartial  mind  will  tolerate. 

"What  most  imports  a  mortal  man  to  win, 
And  whither  on  life's  way  should  he  begin?" 

One  asked  of  me,  and  I,  scarce  knowing,  said, 
"Some  soul,  methinks,  to  righteousness  from  sin." 

He  answered  me,  "What  profits  that  the  man 
Whose  soul  itself  is  under  heavy  ban? 
Whoso  starts  not  his  charity  at  home, 
The  reach  from  earth  to  heaven  scarce  shall  span." 

One,  seeking,  asked  me,  "What  is  Death?"    I  said 
(How  quake  some  at  a  very  shadow's  tread!)  — 
Well,  what  I  answered  him — concerns  it  you? 
First  answer  me  the  number  of  thy  dead! 

50 


Not  knowing  at  whose  bier  ended  the  line 
Of   consanguinity,   couldst   reckon   thine? 
The  source  of  kinship  lies  too  far  away 
For  me  to  trace  and  count  the  dead  of  mine! 

And  as  the  sea-shell  still  echoes  the  strain 
Sung  in  the  caverns  of  its  native  main, — 

However  far  remote, — so  chants  the  soul 
The  songs  of  its  lost  Ed'n,  and  sighs  in  vain. 

Yet  howsoe'er  I  strive  to  fright  away 
The  phantoms  that  beset  me,  and  be  gay, 

Dread  of  Futurity  doth  ever  taint 
The  flavor  of  the  pleasures  due  to-day. 

Ah,  soul  of  mine!    'tis  folly  to  deny 
Thy  craven  fear,  and  all  as  vain  to  try, 

E'en  lip  to  lip  with  this  sweet  second  spouse, 
The  Prophet's  lurid  warning  to  defy! 

Now  it  may  be  the  snare  for  her  was  set 
To  prove  the  Woman's  proneness  to  forget, 

And  change  a  blessing  for  a  doubtful  whim, 
That  into  the  void  left  might  come  regret. 

For  until  he — the  snake — appeared,  no  sting 
Had  found  her  heart,  or  other  hurtful  thing, 

To  turn  her  thoughts  within,  and  make  her  feel 
That  need  of  pardon  which  remorse  doth  bring. 

Not  knowing  it  shall  find,  through  death,  the  rest 
Which  proves  in  life  a  weary,  hopeless  quest, 

Marvel  not  thou  the  soul  oft  shrinks,  appalled, 
And  life  is  robbed  of  all  its  charm  and  zest. 


And  still  the  knot  of  human  fate  resists 
The  efforts  of  the  curious,  and  twists 
The  mind  whoso  would  unravel  it, 
Till  fain  to  quit  the  tangle,  he  desists. 

"And  what  is  Life?"  another  questioned  me; 
"Drag  thou  aside  the  veil  that  I  may  see." 

I  turned,  and  pointing  to  an  open  grave: 
"Behold,"  I  whispered  him,  "Life's  mystery." 

Wherefore,  O  man,  dost  thou  so  blanch  and  start? 
What  is  it  knocks  for  answer  at  thy  heart? 

"My  soul,"  he  said,  "would  know  the  whence  and 

where, 
No  whit  of  which  I'm  able  to  impart." 

Canst  thou  no  single  grain  of  comfort  lend 
Thy  wistful  soul,  so  near  its  mortal  end? 

Thy  plight  scarce  balances  the  just  deserts 
Of  one  who  would  debauch  so  close  a  friend! 

"Thou  fool!"  he  answered  me,  "I  am  my  soul's, 
And  howsoever  it  will  it  me  controls; 
If  evil,  what?    if  good,  where  is  my  gain? 
Am  I  aught  other  than  the  grave  enfolds?" 

""But  it  is  bruited  thou  some  day  shalt  rise, 
And  stand  before  the  Bar  of  the  Allwise, 

Who  will   thy   everlasting  place   declare 
According  as  thy  Earth-life  justifies." 

Then  answered  he  with  speech  more  temperate, 
"I  know,  indeed,  before  His  throne  shall  wait 

Alike  the  quick  and  dead  their  weal  or  woe; 
But  is  such  mine,  or  only  my  soul's  fate?" 

52 


Such  mystery  pervades  the  written  Word, 
Had  I  dared  answer  him  perhaps  I'd  erred, 
And  witlessly  false  hopes  or  fears  aroused 
In  one  who  seemed  already  deeply  stirred. 

I  passed  an  open  portal,  whence  one  cried, 
"Ho!  all  who  will  may  here  the  night  abide; 

The  Bride  awaits  thee,  and  the  Groom  says  come — 
Then  why  dost  linger  on  the  outerside?" 

But,  heeding  not,  I  passed  the  portal  by, 
Yet  whereso'ere  I  went,  heard  I  the  cry, 

Till  on  a  day  the  Voice  its  pleadings  ceased, 
And  now,  alas,  I  know  the  reason  why! 

Well,  I  am  sorry;   and  if  again  I  hear 
Those  loving  accents  dinning  in  my  ear, 

And  find  the  Portal  whence  the  Voice  came, 
Then  will  I  heed  and  enter,  have  no  fear ! 

The  soul  itself  is  its  own  witness,  friend, 
And  for  refuge  and  succor  needs  depend 

On  nothing  other  than  its  conscious  self ; 
Then  why,  O  fool!   thy  conscious  soul  offend? 

As  Water  doth  the  Body  cleanse,  so  Mind 
By  Truth  is  purified,  Menu  opined  ; 

Well,  howsoever  this  may  be,  we  know 
We're  less  to  good  than  evil  thoughts  inclined. 

If  Eblis  would  not  yield  obedience  when 
Commanded  to  show  Adam  homage,  then 

Blame  not  Almighty  that  He  cast  him  forth, 
Where,  out  of  spite,  he  "lies  in  wait  for  men." 

S3 


From  Al  Araf,  we're  taught,  an  open  view 
Is  had  of  Paradise,  and  Hades,  too; 

Unfit  for  Heav'n,  nor  yet  deserving  hell, 
Are  those  adjudged  to  fare  between  the  two! 

Then,  destined  not  of  Paradise  to  be, 
Grant  me  a  place  upon  Al  Araf,  free 

To  badger  those  who,  knowing,  missed  the  way 
They  were  too  self-engrossed  to  show  to  me! 

'Tis  not  so  much  the  sting  of  death  we  dread, 

Nor  yet  the  grave,  where  Love's  last  farewell's  said, 

As  that  sheer  plunge  into  the  vast  Unknown 
The  soul  must  take  on  new  found  pinions  sped. 

Presumptuous  Earth!    albeit  you  foresaw 

The  creature  God  designed  should  break  His  law, 

How  dared  you  seek  to  have  him  change  His  will, 
And  from  His  little  scheme  of  Man  withdraw? 

Let's  see :   Robbed  of  its  doctrine  that  the  soul 
Exists  beyond  the  portals  of  Life's  goal, 

What's  thy  religion  left,  you  should  deny 
Your  senses  leave  to  play  their  wonted  role? 

Foredoomed  To-morrow  on  the  self-same  stroke 
To-day,  forespent,  will  have  his  farewell  spoke, 

With  gladsome  step  will  start  toward  that  past 
On  which  no  sound  but  sighs  has  ever  broke. 

And  some  of  us  who  shall  with  laughter  greet 
Him  where  the  past  and  where  the  future  meet, 

Ourselves  must  slip  the  shackles,  and  go  hence 
Ere  he  his  little  circle  shall  complete. 

54 


Think  not  thy  Sharak  can  the  question  solve; 
On  thee  the  consequences  all  devolve; 

Take  courage  from  thy  conscience,  and  thou  wouldst 
Unhorse  Old  Doubt,  flaunting  a  just  resolve! 

I  cast  a  sonnet  to  a  gaping  crowd, 

And  their  acclaim  was  earnest  as  'twas  loud, 

Till  one  arose  and  threw  a  madrigal, 
When,  as  one  man,  they  to  this  idol  bowed! 

And  with  the  Avesta  the  Bactr'an  Seer 
Gave  him  for  guidance,  need  the  Parsee  fear? 

But  mark!   the  sacred  fire  the  sunbeam  lit 
Must  never  be  allowed  to  disappear! 

Both  Armazda  and  Ahriman  were  great, 
And  each  upon  his  throne  of  power  sate, 

And  the  equal  homage  of  the  Magi  took 
Who  would  no  chances  on  the  Ultimate! 

Sunrise  of  man  a  lengthened  shadow  throws, 
At  noon  it  hath  crept  back  about  his  toes; 

So  mind  in  youth  leaps  forth  in  its  conceit, 
But  later  finds  how  little  then  it  knows. 

From  the  two  cups  which  we  together  clink, 
O  friend  of  mine,  the  lees  of  life  we  drink! 

The  bitter  and  the  sweet  together  swirl 
As  to  our  lips  we  turn  them,  whence  they  sink ! 

There  is  a  music  which  attaints  the  ear; 
There  is  a  laughter  that  echoes  a  fear; 
There  is  a  joy  that  forecasts  a  woe, 
And  ev'ry  eye  distills  a  limpid  tear! 

55 


Sighs  will  not  alter,  nor  regret  erase 
A  single  memory  we  would  efface; 

Though  warm  and  plastic,  yet  the  tablet  holds 
The  impress  of  each  act  on  it  we  trace. 

Not  whence  we  came,  so  much  as  where  we  go 
Is  it  that  most  imports  a  man  to  know, 
If  it  be  true  the  lesser  and  the  great 
Alike  shall  reap  and  garner  as  they  sow. 

Well,  what  my  harvest  is  to  be,  I  needs 
Must  wait  the  germination  of  the  seeds, 

Then  cast — but  will  I  be  allowed  to  cast 
The  balance  'twixt  my  good  and  evil  deeds? 

Now,  if  she  did  indeed  the  Jew  invoke, 
And  from  his  shoulders  snatched  away  his  cloak 
As  from  the  am'rous  one  he  turned  and  fled, 
Which  commandment  was  it  Zulieka  broke? 

And  then  when  Bahram  Gur  and  his  fair  seven 
Are  called  before  the  bar  of  all  in  heaven, 
Think  of  the  witnesses  against  the  man, 
And  of  their  chances  there  of  getting  even! 

And  Sohrab  dies !    But  while  his  life  blood  flows, 
He  the  amulet  to  doubting  Rustum  shows. 

Well,  had  they  heeded  Ruksh's  wild,  weird  neigh, 
Mayhap  it  had  not  then  so  happ'd,  who  knows! 

And  if  Al  Sirat  is  no  wider  than 

A  spider's  thread,  then  fear,  indeed,  the  span ! 

The  reach  from  Earth  to  Heaven,  over  hell, 
Makes  it  unsafe  for  even  a  just  man ! 

56 


There  is  a  story  of  a  fratricide, 

There  is  a  tale  about  the  Blood  that  cried 

Up  from  the  ground  unto  its  Maker,  and 
A  mark  none — that  I've  read  of — e'er  descried. 

Then  answered  one  and  said,  "I've  heard  it  told 
Adam  sent  Seth,  when  he  had  waxen  old, 

To  seek  the  cherub  guarding  Eden's  gate 
And  beg  a  Balsam  from  his  lost  freehold." 

"Nonsense!"  said  one,  "for  Adam  was  too  wise 
To  deem  his  son  could  find  lost  Paradise, 

No  glimpse  of  which  hath  ever  yet  been  had 
To  gladden  any  other  mortal's  eyes." 

Then  quoth  the  other,  "Softly,  softly,  friend, 
And  hear  the  legend  to  the  utter  end : 

Adam  showed  Seth  his  feet  had  scorched  a  trail, 
And  warned  him  on  these  footprints  to  depend." 

"Got  he  the  Balsam?"  asked  one  I  knew  not. 
"No,"  quoth  the  other,  "but  instead  he  got 

A  seed  that  he  should  plant  in  Adam's  mouth, 
At  his  decease,  along  with  him  to  rot. 

"  'Four  thousand  years  must  pass,'  the  cherub  said, 
Ere  opes  the  gate  through  which  the  twain  were  led. 

Tell  them  the  Serpent's  touch  hath  scathed  the  tree, 
And,  save  the  root  and  tip,  the  tree  is  dead. 

'  'Twas  from  that  tree  thy  parents  plucked  and  ate; 
From  it  this  seed  their  dust  shall  propagate, 

And  grow  the  wood  whereon  shall  come  to  pass 
That  shall  restore  them  to  their  lost  estate! 


57 


"The  tree  waxed  strong  and  mighty,  girth  and  height, 
And  Solomon,  requiring  one  of  might 

For  the  chief  pillar  to  support  his  roof, 
Had  it  felled,  and  scored  and  fashioned  right. 

"But  when  they  stood  the  pillar  in  its  place 
It  was  too  short  by  ever  such  a  space, 

Wherefore  they  built  a  pedestal  for  it, 
And  then  it  pierced  the  roof  and  marred  its  grace. 

"At  this  the  King,  becoming  wroth  at  last, 
Ordered  the  beam  across  the  Cedron  cast; 

An  end  of  it  on  either  bank  was  placed 
To  form  a  bridge  for  whoso  daily  passed. 

"From  thence  'twas  moved  and  buried  in  the  glade 
Where,  later  on,  the  famous  pool  was  made 

To  whose  clear  waters  it  imparted  that 
Which  healed  the  ailing  who  in  it  were  laid. 

"About  the  time  He  was  betrayed  and  tried 
The  beam  rose  to  the  surface  of  the  tide, 

And  so  was  used  to  make  the  cross,  'tis  said, 
On  which  the  Christ  was  raised  and  crucified." 

"A  likely  tale,"  said  one,  decrepit,  gray; 
"A  fair  invention,  though,  I'm  bound  to  say. 

But  if  his  feet  had  left  a  blackened  trail, 
How  was  it  others  never  found  the  way?" 

Now  was  it  just  to  the  Scape-goat  to  lay 
The  sins  of  wicked  Israel  on  him,  pray? 

Better  its  fate  whose  death  their  sins  atoned 
Than  his  who  bore  them  to  the  wilds  away ! 

58 


Man  stalks  the  world  with  vanity  replete, 
Unmindful  that  the  dust  beneath  his  feet 

Is  that  to  which  he  owes  the  form  he  wears, 
And  likewise  debtor  for  his  vain  conceit. 

I've  heard  a  tale  where  one  Jan  Ibin  Jan 
Is  made  to  seem  a  pre-Adamic  man, 

Building  and  ruling  over  Chilminar 
Long  ere  the  days  when  Adam's  reign  began! 

'Tis  well,  perhaps,  between  the  mind  of  man 
And  that  we  call  the  Infinite  Plan 

Suspends  a  veil  we  cannot  penetrate 
Till  we  have  rounded  out  life's  little  span. 

Tread  where  we  will,  we  press  a  human  heart 
Or  that  which  was  of  man  a  mortal  part. 

The  air  we  breathe,  others,  expiring,  left 
When  the  grim  archer  winged  them  with  his  dart. 

Life's  insufficient  glimpses  but  reveal 

How  greatly  less  we  know  than  what  we  feel. 

Not  his  excessive  and  utter  conceit 
Can  from  man's  soul  his  littleness  conceal. 

'Twixt  the  Avesta  and  the  Koran  how 
Are  we  to  know  to  whom,  indeed,  to  bow? 

Well,  nothing  better,  let  us  still  pursue 
The  beaten  path  and  make  the  most  of  now. 

And  when  we've  had  our  round  of  mirth  and  wine 
And  slipped  the  shackles  which  to-day  confine, 

Come  thou,  O  Saki,  to  my  bier  and  tilt 
A  flowing  beaker  to  these  lips  of  mine! 


59 


If  one  to  harp  and  one's  ordained  to  burn, 
How,  then,  is  fate  on  our  own  acts  to  turn  ? 

Destined  to  harp,  then  why  our  mirth  subdue? 
Foredoomed,  then  vain  is  all  our  heart's  concern. 

The  stars  that  tremble  on  yon  azure  plain, 
As  little  know  they  of  what  we  would  fain 

As  we  know  of  the  Hand  that  thursts  them  forth 
And  draws  them  back  behind  the  veil  again. 

Shall  we  accept  the  tale  and  question  not? 
David,  'tis  told,  took  refuge  in  a  grot 

Where  spiders  quickly  spun  a  web  across, 
Deceiving  those  who,  else,  within  had  sought ! 

I  tell  you  this:   a  game  of  chance  decides 
(Behind  the  curtain  Now  and  Then  divides) 
What  is  to  be  my  lot,  and  yours,  and  yours, 
And  He  that  throws  the  dice  is  judge  besides. 

And  Man  was  lulled  to  sleep,  and  from  his  side 
God  took  the  rib  and  fashioned  him  a  bride, 
And  this  first  sleep  became  the  pattern  of 
That  one  to'rd  which  our  heedless  footsteps  glide. 

As  cried  the  traitor's  blood  when  Aeneas  drew 
The  Myrtle  from  his  ashes,  whence  it  grew, 

So  cried  my  soul  when  doubt  uprooted  quite 
The  one  remaining  hope  'twas  clinging  to. 

That  was  a  sorry  trick  the  Devil  played 
Upon  King  David  when  himself  he  made 

A  stag,  and  lured  the  royal  sportsman  on 
To  where  Goliah's  kin  his  death  essayed ! 

60 


Answered  the  Vine:   "But  for  the  Devil's  wiles 
My  juice  had  nourished  only  mirth  and  smiles." 

Hist,  O  Vine!   he  did  but  add  a  spice; 
Not  it,  but  man  himself,  himself  defiles! 

And  when  the  Book  in  which  mine  acts  are  shown 
Into  the  scales  awaiting  it  is  thrown, 

Will  they  go  up,  I  wonder,  or  go  down? 
For  as  they  rise  or  fall  my  fate  is  shown ! 

Or  should  the  Messenger  present,  instead, 
Fruit  from  the  tree  of  Life,  turn  not  thy  head ; 

Not  thy  aversion,  nor  thy  prayers  can  stay 
The  penalty  which  He  in  Eden  read. 

Had  not  the  Raven  by  example  shown 
How  to  entomb  the  dead,  had  Adam  known? 

For  he  and  Eve  and  Abel's  faithful  dog 
Had  watched  the  corpse  till  it  had  putrid  grown. 

Were  I  (that  Arab  like)  permitted  to 
Enter  the  gates  and  Iram's  wonders  view, 

I  would  not  flee  in  dread  her  silent  ways 
Till  I  had  filched  a  rose  or  two  for  you! 

Now  if  it  be  that  when  accounts  are  squared, 
All  those  who  at  my  hands  unjustly  fared 
Receive  of  my  good  deeds  a  recompense, 
Shall  any  good,  think  you,  to  me  be  spared  ? 

And  if,  then,  from  the  Tuba  Tree  out-flow 
(As  they  who  picture  Janet  Aden  show) 
Four  rivers,  one  of  which  is  ruby  wine, 
Oh,  who  would  not  to  Janet  Aden  go! 

61 


So  when  I  worship  at  a  human  shrine 
Do  I  therein  not  worship  the  divine? 

Either  I  do,  O  Thou!   or  they  do  err 
Who  teach  my  spirit  is  a  part  of  thine. 

And  there,  likewise,  dark-eyed  Musk-maidens  wait 
Each  coming  of  her  predestined  mate 

Whose  hands  shall  dip  and  minister  the  wine, 
And  kisses  even  more  the  soul  elate! 

And  when  the  angels  of  the  lurid  hue 
Enter  my  tomb  and  bid  me  rise,  and  true 
Answers  accord  of  all  they  question  me, 
May  these  be  such  no  torture  shall  ensue ! 

Or  shall  the  earth  be  closer  round  me  pressed, 
And  dragons  bite  and  sting  me,  thwarting  rest? 
Well,  I  know  not,  but  this,  indeed,  I  know — 
Death  on  the  Sabbath  day  will  bar  their  quest! 

If  destined  I  the  fervid  shoe  to  wear, 
Or  agonize  in  sweat,  the  while  I'm  there 
Before  the  Bar,  pending  my  final  doom, 
I  pray  no  haste  in  judging  me  He'll  spare! 

Then  if  my  good  deeds  are  not  equal  to 
Rend'ring  to  each  and  all  their  rightful  due, 
They  may  add  of  his  sins  to  mine  enough 
To  balance  the  account,  and  justice  do! 

But  if,  after  sufficient  has  been  ta'en 
Of  my  good  deeds,  there  yet  enough  remain 
To  equal  quite  the  weight  of  one  wee  ant, 
Why  then  my  life  will  not  have  been  in  vain ! 

62 


Waste  not  your  efforts  on  the  creature  who 
Has  not  the  wit  or  wish  to  learn  of  you. 

The  ass,  we're  told,  the  Nazarine  bestrode 
Were  still  an  ass,  though  brought  to  Mecca  too. 

At  length  the  Muezzen  the  hour  declares 
And  the  Mohammedan  retires  for  prayers. 

Which    thought,    I    wonder,    now,    concerns    him 

most — 
His  last  misdoing  or  his  day's  affairs  ? 

And  you  and  I  are  hov'ring  on  the  brink 
Of  that  weird  mystery  which  is  the  link 

That  couples  Time  to  vast  Eternity 
The  little  scoop  in  Earth  from  which  we  shrink. 

Well,  it  may  be  that  our  own  fate  we  weave; 
That  the  predestined  one  which  some  believe 
Lies  ambushed  in  the  shadows  at  the  end 
Is  but  a  Fancy,  as  we  shall  perceive. 

The  Hand  that  fashioned  man  to  human  shape 
Likewise  gave  form  and  color  to  the  grape, 
But  it  was  Satan  mingled  with  its  juice 
The  blood  of  lamb  and  lion,  sow  and  ape! 

Will  thoughts  confusing  never  cease  to  rise? 
A  tale  I've  heard  somewhere  runs  on  this  wise: 

The  first  man  was  bi-sexual,  at  first, 
And  quite  a  hundred-fold  his  present  size! 

Along  with  this  exists  a  legend  frail: 
That  Adam  was  created  with  a  tail, 

From  which  Almighty  cleverly  designed 
A  creature  far  more  fair  than  he,  but  frail ! 


But  when  Adam  perceived  his  former  tail 
Too  frisky  was  by  far  for  the  female 

Designed  to  cheer  him  down  the  ways  of  life, 
He  prayed  to  God,  and  not  without  avail. 

For  then  it  was  from  Adam's  rib  He  made 
The  woman  whom  the  Devil  sought  and  played 

The  trick  upon  with  the  forbidden  fruit 
The  consequence  of  which  we  can't  evade. 

By  which  recital  I  am  forced  to  go 

Yet  further  with  the  narrative  and  show 

How  that  the  one  He  fashioned  from  the  tail 
Is  with  us  in  the  giddy  ones  we  know! 

Yes,  it  is  strange  not  one  returns  to  tell 

What  Heaven  is  like,  or  what  the  ways  of  Hell — 

If  Heaven  is  what  we  dream,  and  Hell  the  same, 
Or  if  Death  was,  and  Hell,  ere  Adam  fell. 

I  say:    If  Solomon  Ashmedai  knew 
To  be  the  Evil  One,  yet  careless  grew, 

And  pledged  his  ring  to  learn  a  magic  trick, 
It  mattered  little  if  he  lived  to  rue. 

Again  I  tell  you,  and  its  truth  declare: 
Who  is  indicted  of  misdoing  there 

Shall  have  recourse  to  no  tribunal  else, 
Or  less  relentless,  yet  shall  justly  fare. 

Ah,  well !   might  I  recast  my  life,  no  doubt 
'Twould  leave  a  fairer  luster  when  'tis  out. 

Still,  the  Muezzen's  sight  is  bad,  you  know — 
How  then  discern  'twixt  me  and  the  devout? 

64 


And  if  the  Giants  did  the  heavens  invade, 

And  fright  the  gods,  who  thence  for  Egypt  made, 

Blame  not  the  gods,  nor  those  who  worshiped  them 
In  their  new  forms  assumed  because  afraid. 

When  the  grim  Ferrash  strikes  and  spits  my  heart, 
And  my  scared  soul  and  I  are  doomed  to  part, 

Methinks  I  know  what  my  last  thought  shall  be 
A-twixt  the  parting  and  the  rankling  dart. 

For  I  have  looked  on  life  with  scant  content, 
And  into  unknown  realms  my  soul  have  sent 

Some  inkling  of  that  afterward  to  gain, 
And  it  came  back  less  knowing  than  it  went. 

If  from  the  infinite  past  there  came  no  call, 
And  the  infinite  future  waved  no  pall, 

And  hope  and  fear  were  both  unknown  to  man, 
Then  were  the  finite  present  all  in  all. 

And  when  into  that  stern,  infinite  past 
We  too,  with  all  that  went  before,  are  cast, 

Shall  we  then  know,  think  you,  which  end  of  Time — 
The  end  that  was,  or  end  to  be —  's  more  vast? 

Lest,  dreaming,  I  meet  Siltim  unawares, 
I  shun  the  groves  where  it  is  said  he  fares, 

Since  I've  no  charm  to  wear  upon  my  arm 
To  shield  me  from  the  wily  demon's  snares! 

And  if,  then,  it  shall  chance  the  little  plot — 
The  grave  in  which  we're  laid  at  last — is  not 

The  end  of  all,  as  some,  you  know,  maintain, 
Where  fares  the  soul  while  it  awaits  its  lot? 

65 


The  mystery  of  life  more  tangled  grows 
The  deeper  into  it  our  reason  goes; 

The  Galilean  solved  it,  certain  claim, 
Yet  man  no  more  of  it,  than  ever,  knows. 

And  those  who  sought  and  failed,  and  those  who  found 
The  key  to  riches  and  with  wealth  were  crowned, 

Alike  are  paupers  in  the  realm  of  Death — 
Tenants  by  grace  of  one  small  plot  of  ground! 

And  this  I've  learned:    the  richest  man  is  he 
Whose  wants  are  fewest,  and  a  mind  to  see 

The  folly  of  desires  which,  gratified, 
Lead  to  yet  others  which  can  never  be. 

Now  tell  me  this,  I  pray:    If  Moses  knew 
Whereof  he  wrote,   why  not  of   Satan,   too? 

'Tis  not  a  query,  poked  in  idle  jest — 
I  fain  would  know  thfe  reason,  friend,  from  you. 

And  those  first  prophets  were  no  less  remiss. 
They  threatened  vengeance  and  they  promised  bliss, 

Yet  nought  about  the  Evil  One  they  said! 
Now  who  can  give  a  reason,  pray,  for  this? 

O  soul  of  mine,  thy  fruitless  quest  forego! 
The  One  True  Way  hast  sought  in  vain,  and  so, 

Lost  in  a  mist  of  doubt,  bide  still,  and  see 
What  is  thy  destiny — or  weal,  or  woe! 

Take  from  thy  creed  the  all-pervading  thought, 
"Future  Rewards  and  Punishment,"  and  nought 

Of  thy  religion,  Man,  you'll  find  is  left 
To  feed  the  hopes  and  fears  itself  has  wrought. 

66 


Then  if  the  purpose  of  this  life  is  more 
Than  waxing  merry  in  the  wine  we  pour, 

Think  you  the  Saki  will  get  all  the  blame 
When  we  the  judge  of  all  are  called  before? 

And  if  the  crafty  priest,  Benaiah,  scared 
The  moor-hen,  as  toward  her  nest  she  fared, 

So  that  she  dropped  the  Schamir,  which  he  sought, 
Think  you  that  he  could  a  lesser  hazard  dared? 

Well,  it  were  equally  as  wise,  no  doubt, 
To  make  a  merry  jest  of  Life,  and  flout 

The  ever-haunting  doubts  and  quaking  fears 
Until  the  hour  is  up  and  lights  are  out! 

Whereon,  O  Saki,  one  last  bumper  pour! 
Fill  up  the  beaker  till  it  trickles  o'er, 

Then  write  my  epitaph,  and  let  it  read: 
"Women  he  loved,  and  wine,  but  wine  the  more!" 


67 


SOUNDS  AND  PERSPECTIVES. 

On  the  hillsides  I  have  seen — 

In  the  springtime — great  white  splashes 
Of  dogwood,  and  crimson  dashes 

Of  red-bud  amidst  the  green 
Of  the  thicket's  meshes. 

I  have  caught  the  tinkling  sound 
Of  the  distant  cow-bell's  rattle 
On   the  busy,   browsing  cattle — 

Seen  the  hawk,  high  sailing  round 
When  the  crows  gave  battle. 

Summer  noon-tides  I  have  stood 

'Neath  the  cool  gloom  of  the  beaches, 
Gazing  off  across  the  reaches 

Of  white  heat,  toward  the  wood, 
Where  yon  highway  stretches. 

Watched  the  puffe  of  white  dust  rise 
Where  the  teamsters  knee-deep  waded 
In  it,  goading  their  poor,  jaded 

Oxen,  till  the  heat  mine  eyes 
Blinded,  and  all  faded. 

Seen  the  harvesters  a-field, 

Caught  the  rhythm  of  the  sickle 
Like  a  silvery  fountain's  trickle, 

The  while  the  season's  bounteous  yield 
Set  their  hearts  a-tickle. 


68 


I've  seen  thin  veils  of  blue  mist  (hung 
By  the  woodland-nymphs)  at  morning 
All  the  mountain  tops  adorning; 

Heard  the  woodman's  ax  that  rung 
The  forest  tree's  death  warning; 

Caught  the  homeward  low  of  herds, 
Distant,  dreamy,  melancholy, 
Stealing  o'er  the  meadows  slowly, 

And  the  vesper  hymn  of  birds 
In  the  twilight  holy. 

I  have  felt  that  pensiveness 

We  are  sometimes  wont  to  borrow 
From  the  forecasts  of  the  morrow, 

Foreshadowings  of  something  less 
Than  sheer  grief  or  sorrow. 

Felt  those  hopes  which  come  and  go 
When   anticipated   pleasures 
Fail  to  yield  expected  measures, 

And  that  bitterness  of  woe 
Over  vanished  treasures. 


A  WEIRD  DREAM 

I  stood  last  night  where  a  white  mist  rose 

Above  a  silent  river, 
And  the  eerie  forms  that  come  to  those 

Who  feel  no  joy  ever, 
Came  to  me  by  the  silent  shore 
Where  the  pale  mist  drifted  o'er. 

The  mist,  it  drifted  over  the  stream, 
The  moon  shone  blood-red  through, 

The  stars  grew  dim,  till  no  faint  gleam 
Relieved  the  murky  blue, 

And  a  wTeird  loneliness  and  dread 

Crept  into  my  sad  heart  instead. 

My  heart  grew  chill — a  nameless  fear 

Came  over  me,  for  now 
Voices,  long  hushed,  fell  on  my  ear, 

And  dank  hands  touched  my  brow — 
Hands  that  I  had  felt  before 
Pressed  my  brow  as  oft  of  yore. 

A  voice  I  knew  came  out  of  the  mist, 
And  a  form  I'd  known  before 

Came  out,  and  bent  o'er  me  and  kissed 
My  pale  lips  o'er  and  o'er, 

And  oh !   the  touch  of  those  lips,  and  oh ! 

The  breath  that  chilled  and  numbed  me  so! 


70 


THE  FISHERMAN 

O  happy  the  life  the  fisherman  lives, 

Healthy  and  happy  is  he; 
Casting  his  nets  and  lines,  he  thrives, 

And  laughs  right  merrily 

As  he  pulls  for  the  shore  with  his  catch  of  shad, 
Where  waiting  and  watching,  his  tow-head  lad 

Dances  and  sings  with  glee. 


RE-AWAKENED 

I  thought  that  I  had  left  it  all  behind  me — 
The  sighing,  and  the  sorrow,  and  the  tears; 

That  my  heart  held  nothing  of  her  to  remind  me 
Save  that  piteous,  pallid,  placid  face  of  hers. 

And  I  said,  "The  dead  must  give  way  to  the  living, 
Even  as  the  old  leaf  gives  way  to  the  new," 

And  "the  heart  is  happy  only  when  'tis  giving 
The  love  for  love  it  was  created  to." 

'Twas  thus  I  thought,  and  thus  I  said,  not  knowing 
The  ashes  of  the  dead  love  held  a  spark 

A  breath,  a  sigh  would  change  to  embers  glowing, 
Like  the  glimmer  of  a  red  light  in  the  dark. 

Then  I  turned  me  from  the  sweet  enthralling  present, 
From  the  glamour  and  the  glory  of  her  eyes, 

And  knew  my  love  for  her  was  evanescent 
As  my  heart  sent  forth  the  old  familiar  sighs. 

And  my  heart,  so  lately  pulsing  in  the  sweetness 
And  the  warmth  of  love  her  loveliness  inspired, 

Is  now  chill,  and  still,  and  frozen  to  completeness, 
And  the  dead  above  the  living  is  desired. 

In  the  shadow  of  that  early,  bitter  sorrow 
In  fancy  now  I  stand  beside  a  grave, 

And  from  the  solemn  silence  seek  to  borrow 
The  respite  and  the  solace  mortals  crave. 

72 


But  in  vain!    The  fountain  of  all  hope  is  dried  up 
By  the  arid  winds  of  utter  grief  and  woe, 

And  the  future  in  the  blessed  past  is  tied  up 
While  the  silence  and  the  shadows  deeper  grow. 

Then  a  whisper  seems  to  agitate  the  stillness 
And  the  shadows  are  illumined  by  a  smile, 

And  I  see  her  face  as  ere  that  fatal  illness 
When  I  held  her  to  my  heart  a  little  while. 

And  the  face,  so  lately  cast  in  marble  whiteness, 
Is  now  flushed  with  the  rich  color  love  imparts, 

And  my  soul  hath  left  the  shadow  for  the  brightness 
And  the  beauty  that  illumines  happy  hearts. 

Alas!    the  vision  passes,  and  the  feeling 

That  crushed  me  when  they  told  me  she  was  gone 

Comes  o'er  me  like  a  shadow,  surely  stealing 
The  sweetness  that  my  heart  was  feasting  on. 


73 


THINGS  'AT  USED  TO  BE 

It's  many  a  day  since  I've  bin  here, 
An'  many  o'  them  I  knowed  is  dead, 
An'  most  o'  the  old  lan'-marks  is  fled, 

'Ceptin'  the  road  'long  the  crick  bank,  where 
Past  the  old  schoolhouse  it  led. 

An'  when  I  go  'long  that  road  now 
I  can't  he'p  thinkin'  'bout  when  she 
Used  to  go  'long  there  with  me, 

Fer  mem'ry  will  run  back,  somehow, 
To  things  'at  used  to  be. 

An'  the  feelin'  that  comes  over  me — 
A  kind  o'  longin'  an'  regret — 
Makes  me  wish  'at  I  could  forget 

Some  o'  the  things  'at  used  to  be — 
Some  things  'at  ha'nt  me  yet. 

Fer  instance,  when  we  started  to  go 
To  meetin'  once  across  the  crick, 
An'  cause  the  old  foot-log  was  slick, 

An'  partly  'cause  her  head  swum  so, 
She  couldn't  walk  it,  an'  turned  sick. 

At  which  I  got  'most  mad  as  sin, 

An'  said  I  knowed  'twas  all  put  on — 
Knowed  ef  she  would,  she  could  'a'  gone, 

An'  wished  'at  she  had  fallen  in 
An'  sp'ilt  her  nice  new  lawn. 


74 


An'  then  she  looked  so  hurt,  an'  cried, 
An'  said  she'd  bet  I'd  see  the  day 
I'd  wish  I  hadn't  talked  that  way — 

'Specially  when  I  knowed  she'd  tried, 
Whatever  else  I'd  say. 

An'  true  as  fate,  her  prophecy 

Was  all  fulfilled  when  she  lay  dead, 
Fer  many  times  since  then  I've  said 

I  wished  to  goodness  gracious  I 
Had   humored   her,   instead. 

An'  though  I've  loved  an'  wed  since  then, 
An'  though  my  other  'n's  young  and  fair 
As  any  woman  breathes  the  air, 

I  can't  he'p  thinkin'   'bout  t'other  'n'  when 
My  heart  is  wrought  with  care. 

Fer  she  had  a  way  o'  sayin'  things, 
A  tender,  soothin',  coddlin'  tone 
(Which  to  the  other  'n'  is  not  known) 

'At  showed  she  felt  an'  shared  the  stings 
Which  now  I  bear  alone. 

Ah,  well!    ef  on'y  we  could  foresee 
The  bitterness  a  harsh  word  brings, 
An'  how  the  memory  of  it  stings, 

We'd  ponder  well,  I  think,  'fore  we 
Give  ut'rance  to  some  things. 

Fer  when  our  dead  are  dead,  they're  dead — 
Ther'  ain't  no  way  to  bring  them  back, 
An'  howsoe'er  the  conscience  slack 

Its  vigilance,  the  harsh  word  said 
Some  day  our  heart  will  rack ! 


75 


BURIAL  OF  MOSES. 

No  winding  sheet  of  earthly  weave 
Enwrapped  the  form  of  Moses: 

Supernal  hands,  we  may  believe, 
Laid  him  where  he  reposes. 

And  no  man  saw  the  funeral  train, 
And  no  man  saw  the  burial 

Out  there  on  Moab's  lonely  plain, 
Except  the  folk  ethereal. 

No  gloria-in-excelsis  here 
On  earth  was  ever  chanted 

To  equal  that  above  the  bier 
Of  him  to  whom  was  granted 

Permission  to  behold  a-near 
His  people's  sure  possession, 

While  yet  the  doom  rings  in  his  ear 
That  cancels  his  transgression. 

And  standing  on  the  rugged  crest 
Of  Pisgah,  gazing  yonder, 

Over  the  scene  toward  the  west, 
He's  little  time  to  ponder 

On  what  may,  or  may  not  be; 

Yet,  with  eye  prophetic, 
He  sees  their  glorious  destiny 

And  mounts  to  heiehts  ecstatic. 


76 


And  while  in  this  ecstatic  state 
The  Lord  recalls  his  spirit, 

And  gives  the  form  inanimate 
Sepulture  of  such  merit 

As  never  since  the  world  began 

Was  honor  like  accorded 
To  any  other  mortal  man 

As  that  to  him  afforded. 

With  His  own  hands  God  laid  him  in 
The  grave  there  excavated, 

Rememb'ring  now  no  more  the  sin 
He'd  fully  expiated. 

And  well  we  know  an  angel  choir 

Sang  peans  at  his  burial, 
And  that  a  golden  harp  and  lyre 

Added  to  strains  ethereal. 


77 


A  TRAGEDY 

The  morn  was  bright  and  balmy,  with  signs  presaging 

rain, — 
The  loon's  cry,  the  raincrow's,  the  tree-toad's  rasping 

strain, — 

An'  we  were  in  the  woods  alone,  little  sister  an'  I, 
She  pluckin'  little  blue-bells,  I  in  a  tree  near  by — 
A  small  tree,   a  service-tree — with  berries  red  and 

ripe. 

Beneath  the  hollow  of  the  sky  a  single  cloud  was  seen ; 
The  wind   rose,  the  heavens  paled,   an'  then  a  hazy 

green 

Crept  across  the  sun's  face,  until  a  shadow  fell, 
An'  dark  an'  gruesome  grew  the  wood  'round  me  an' 

sister  Nell, — 
The   dense  wood,    the   drear  wood, — it    frightened 

Nell  an'  me! 

Across  the  hills  the  thunders  came,  an'  then  the  light- 
ning played; 

The  clouds  belched,  the  winds  shrieked,  an'  sister  got 
afraid, 

An'  I  slid  down  the  bush  an'  crawled  beneath  a  leanin' 
tree, 

An'  sister  dropped  her  blue-bells  an'  nestled  close  to 

me — 

'Cause  she  was  scared,  an'  I  was  scared,  as  any  one 
Vd  be! 

78 


An'  while  the  storm  was  ragin',  little  sister  cried  an' 

said, 
"Oh!  my  foot  hurts — the'  's  thorns  here!"   I  looked — 

a  copper-head 
Was  creepin'  off,  an'  then  I  knew  it  wasn't  thorns  at 

all, 
An'  when  I  looked  to'rd  her  again  she  was  about  to 

fall, 
An'  I  caught  her  an'  held  her,  an'  tried  to  soothe 

'er  pain. 

An'  when  she  kep'  a  cryin'  I  took  'er  on  my  back, 
An'  bendin'  low,  I  ran  so  toward  our  little  shack. 
But  when  I  felt  'er  arms  loose  their  clasp  about  my 

neck, 
I  stopped  an'  laid  'er  on  the  ground,  an'  tried  to  make 

'er  speak — 
But  she  laid  there,  a  strange  stare  in  her  baby  eyes! 

An'  when  she  wouldn't  speak  or  move  I  shouted  in 

alarm, 
An'  father  came  an'  knelt  down  an'  took  'er  on  his 

arm, 
An'  kissed  'er  little  pale  cheeks,  an'  wept  aloud,  an' 

said, 
As  he  took  'er  up  to  bear  her  home,  "My  God,  my 

baby's  dead!" 
An'  I  cried,  an'  he  cried — oh,  how  my  papa  cried ! 

Then  some  folks  came  an'  stood  around,  an'  talked  in 

whispers  low 
'Bout  what  a  awful  thing  it  was  a  little  child  should 

die  so. 
An'  when  they'd  made  a  deep  hole,  away  down  in  the 

ground, 
They  laid  'er  in,  an'  covered  her,  an'  made  a  little 

mound, 
An'  ev'ry  day  I  go  there,  an  set  by  it  an'  cry! 

79 


PUNCHEON  CRICK 

I  want  to  see  the  people  we  used  to  know  on  Punch- 
eon— 
The  people  that  we  neighbored  with  a  dozen  years 

or  more; 
Where's  the  use  o'   tryin'  to  be  happy  when  you're 

dyin' 

For  the  kindly,  honest  faces  that  you  used  to  know 
before  ? 

I'd  like  to  step  in  on  'em  when  they  weren't  expectin' 

me, 
An'  see  their  look  of   glad   surprise,   an'  hear  'em 

when  they  say, 
"  'Tain't  no  use  a  talkin',  you're  the  master  gal  to 

walk  in 

On   a  body  unbeknown,"  an'  "How's  yer  ma  to- 
day?" 

Oh,   where's   the   use   o'    riches,   when   your  heart   is 

heavin'   sighs, 
An'  your  soul  is  filled  with  longin's  they  will  not 

satisfy  ? 
It  sets  me  almost  ravin',  this  everlastin'  cravin' 

The  freedom  of  the  meadows,  an'  the  fields  of  wavin' 
rye! 

So 


When  they  struck  the  gusher  on  the  farm,  an'  father 

sold 
The  place  for  fifty  thousand,  I  was  happy  then,  it 

seemed — 

Laid  awake  nights  buildin'  castles  in  the  air,  an'  gildin' 
Them  with  ev'ry  fancy  that  a  mortal  ever  dreamed. 

I  pictured  us  a  mansion  on  the  Boolyvar  in  town, 
An'  carriages,  a  driver,  an'  a  footman  to  attend, 

An'  myself  reclinin'  on  a  sofa-couch,  a  pinin' 

For  a  truant  lover,  an'  a-wishin'  life  would  end. 

The  log-house  in  the  country  had  no  carpets  on  the 

floor, 
An'  only  muslin  curtains  for  the  windows,  that  was 

all; 

An'  father  kep'  his  saddle  out  on  the  porch,  astraddle 
Of  the  banister,  an'  bridle  on  a  peg  driv'  in  the 
wall. 

The  chickens  an'  the  turkeys  had  their  dust-bath  in  the 

yard, 
The  geese  an'  ducks  their  lavatory  near  the  garden 

fence, 
An'  I  used  to  think  the  noise  of  the  geese,  an'  ducks, 

an*  boys, 

An'  the  peafowls  an'  the  guineas  would  deprive  me 
of  my  sense. 

Then   think  of  us  a  havin'   pictured  carpets  on   the 

floors, 
An'  rugs  of  bear  an'  tiger  skins,  with  heads,   an' 

claws,  an'  all, 

So  lifelike  that  I've  trembled,  so  much  the  things  re- 
sembled 

The  real,  livin'  creatures,  'specially  that  one  in  the 
hall. 

81 


I'd  like  to  be  a-livin'  back  on  Puncheon  Crick  again, 
Where,  unconcerned  with  etiquette,  an'  fashionable 

gush, 

I'd  go  to  meetin'  Sundays,  an'  wash  an'  iron  Mon- 
days, 

An'  help  to  rake  an'  rick  the  hay  durin'  the  harvest 
rush. 

I'd  like  to  see  Belinda  Yeager  go  a-ridin'  by 

On  her  flea-bitten  critter,  with  her  basket  on  her 

lap, 
All  in  a  pleasant  flutter,  thinkin'  what  her  eggs  an' 

butter 

Would  buy  to  trim  her  weddin*   gown,   to  marry 
Silas  Knap. 

An'    there    is    Larkin'    Rudd,    who    used    to    come   a 

sparkin'  me; 
I'd  like  to  see  him  ridin'  down  the  lane,  as  oft  of 

yore, 
Ev'ry  Sunday  mornin',  a  holly-hock  adornin' 

The  lapel  of  the  skimpy  seersucker  coat  he  wore. 

I  used  to  think  when  I'd  so  much  to  do  out  on  the 

farm, 
To  milk,  an'  churn,  an'  sweep,  an'  half  a  hundred 

other   things, 
I'd  like  to  be  a  lady  of  leisure,  in  some  shady 

Nook  a  readin'  novels,  an'  a  wearin'  diamond  rings. 

But  now  that  I  have  tried  it  I  would  willin'ly  ex- 
change 

My  boodwar  in  the  city  for  my  garret  snug  retreat, 
Where  the  rhythmic  patter  of  the  rain  upon  the  latter 
Would  send  me  off  to  dreamland  on  the  wings  of 
slumber  sweet. 

82 


Ah,  well!    we're  ne'er  more  happy,  once  we've  grown 

wordly  wise. 

An'  true  it  is  that  ignorance  is  happiness  instead; 
The  path  hill-people  follow  to  their  cabin  up  some 

hollow 

Alone  leads  where  contentment  neath  a  rustic  roof 
is  bred. 


PREMONITION 

"Rora,  O  Rora!    the  winds  are  wild, 
And  the  waves  run  high  on  the  sea; 

I  fear,  oh  I  fear  for  the  fate  of  our  child 
To-night,   wherever  he  be!" 

"Ah,  Katie,  the  boy  is  a  fearless  lad, 

And  knows  how  to  reef  a  sail; 
Little  he  cares  if  the  sea  is  mad, 

And  the  winds  do  shriek  and  wail." 

"Yes,  Rora,  I  know  he  is  fearless  and  brave, 

Yes,  fearless  and  brave  is  he, 
But  what  could  he  with  an  angry  wave 

On  the  breast  of  a  raging  sea? 

"Go  watch  on  the  beach,  where  the  waves  may  throw 

His  lifeless  form  to-night; 
For,  Rora,  he'll  perish  to-night,  I  know, 

And  my  heart  is  breaking,  quite." 

When  morning  dawned  they  found  him  there, 

A  pale,  cold  corpse  on  the  sand, 
With  sea-ooze  clinging  in  his  hair, 

Sea-ooze  clutched  in  his  hand. 


HIDDEN  GEMS 

There  are  many  little  gems  of  thought 
Deep-hidden  in  the  poet's  mind, 

Which,  though  he  try,  he  yet  cannot 
Reveal  to  any  but  his  kind. 


THE  BETTER  WAY 

Come  thou,  O  Muse,  cease  thy  light  dalliance; 

Too  long,  methinks,  hast  trilled  soft,  witless  airs 

To  love-sick  maid  and  shallow-pated  swain. 

Leave  such  to  those  of  little  wit  and  worth, 

And  tread  with  me  the  unfrequented  ways 

That  lead  toward  the  border  lands  of  Myth, 

Where  Bellerophon  Pegasus  bestrode, 

Ere  Homer  sang,  or  Pindar  tuned  his  lyre, 

Or  magic  mind  of  Eschylus  had  wrought 

To  open  graves  and  bring  "pale  spectres"  forth 

To  strut  the  stage  and  frighten  timid  hearts; 

Where  elves,  and  nymphs,  and  fauns,  and  satyrs  dwell, 

And  fairies  come  and  go,  and  sirens  flute 

In  coverts  green,  and  lure  to  certain  death 

Who  would  a  fancied  assignation  keep. 


LAKE  O'  THE  WHITE  CANOE 

"Woe!  woe!"   the  phantom  sang, 
"Woe  to  the  hapless  swain — 
Woe  to  the  trusting  maid 
Whom  parents  cross  in  love, 
Woe  to  the  lovers  twain 

If  he  and  she 

A  trysting  flee 
To  the  Lake  of  the  White  Canoe! 

"O  may  they  shun  the  spot, 
The  dark  and  mirey  fen, 
The  drear  and  dismal  wood 
That  skirts  the  stagnant  pool, 
And  seek  a  trysting  place 

Beyond  the  bound 

And  dreary  sound 
Of  the  Lake  of  the  White  Canoe. 

"The  she-wolf  loves  the  spot, 
The  muckwa  prowleth  there; 
Here  sounds  the  hoot-owl's  cry, 
Here  croak  the  frogs  and  thrum, 
Here  sings  the  muckawis, 

And  the  copperhead 

Here  makes  his  bed 
By  the  Lake  of  the  White  Canoe. 


86 


"At  night  here  may  be  heard. 
If  hushed  the  muckawis, 
And  silent  the  she-wolf's  tread, 
Unheard  the  muckawa's  growl, 
Suppressed  the  hoot-owl's  cry, 

The  measured  dip 

Of  a  paddle's  tip 
On  the  Lake  of  the  White  Canoe. 

"And  there  likewise  is  heard 
Words  of  a  tender  song, 
Whose  burden  is  a  tale, 
Sung  to  a  touching  strain, 
As  through  the  pale  white  mist 

A  boat  with  two 

Glides  into  view 
On  the  Lake  of  the  White  Canoe. 

"Ages  have  come  and  gone 
Since  this  sad  thing  befell. 
My  father  told  it  me, 
His  father's  father  him, 
And  from  his  father  he 

Received  the  tale 

Of  the  lover's  bale 
On  the  Lake  of  the  White  Canoe. 

"Upon  the  Great  Arm's  brink, 
In  that  far  away  time, 
Dwelt  the  brave  Roanokes, 
Most  dreaded  of  the  wilds, 
The  whizzing  of  whose  crest 

Scared  all  away, 

Traditions  say, 
From  the  Lake  of  the  White  Canoe. 


"Among  the  brave  Roanokes 
A  youth  and  maiden  dwelt, 
Who  from  their  childhood  loved — 
The  brave  Annawan  he, 
The  fair  Pequida  she — 

And  oft  at  night 

They'd  row  in  sight, 
On  the  lake  in  a  white  canoe. 

"He  the  son  of  a  chief, 
She  a  warrior's  daughter, 
He  the  son  of  a  Roanoke, 
And  she  a  Maqua's  pride, 
Which  two  brave  men  were  foes 

When  maid  and  youth 

Plighted  their  troth 
On  the  Lake  of  the  White  Canoe. 

"From  childhood's  happy  hours 
Together  they  had  roamed 
Bosky  dell  and  bower, 
Woodland  glen  and  hollow, 
Or  by  the  river's  brink 

Ever  they  strayed, 

And  gaily  played 
Near  the  Lake  of  the  White  Canoe. 

"At  last  their  sires  forbade 
The  courtship  of  the  twain, 
Whereon  by  stealth  they  met, 
Despite  the  stern  decree, 
And  every  summer  eve 

They  sought  the  tryst 

Beneath  the  mist, 
On  the  Lake  of  the  White  Canoe. 


83 


[  'Twas  thus  for  moons  they  met 
While  darkness  veiled  the  earth, 
Naught  caring  for  the  wolf 
That  skulked  amidst  the  brake, 
Nor  for  the  muckwa's  growl, 
Could  they  but  feel 
The  bliss  and  weal 
Of  love  in  a  white  canoe. 

"When  autumn  came  and  brought 
The  summer's  bounteous  yield — 
The  fields  of  ripened  maize, 
The  vines  of  clustering  grapes, — 
It  brought  likewise  a  bane, 

For  now  no  more 

Put  off  from  shore 
The  twain  in  a  white  canoe. 

"For  now  their  sires  had  heard 
How,  at  the  midnight  hour, 
That  those  who  walked  the  beach, 
Or  watched  the  lick  for  deer, 
Oft  heard  a  tender  song, 

And  sometimes  caught, 

Or  so  they  thought, 
A  glimpse  of  a  white  canoe. 

"And  thus  the  maiden's  sire 
Did  question  her  and  say, 
'Pequida,  it  is  said — 
A  little  bird  told  me — 
That  oft  at  night  is  seen 

A  white  canoe, 

Wherein  are  two — 
Tell  me,  daughter,  is  either  you?' 


"Then  from  the  maiden's  eyes 
Came,  like  the  summer's  rain, 
The  tears  she  could  not  stay, 
As  thus  she  answered  him, 
'I  love  brave  Annawan, 

And  oft,  I  own 

As  thou  has  shown, 
We  meet  in  our  white  canoe.' 

"  'Love  the  son  of  my  foe, 
Knowing  the  bitter  wrongs 
That  he  has  heaped  on  me! 
Harken,   then,  to  my  words, 
And  tryst  no  more  with  him, 

Nor  be  thou  seen 

Mist-waves  between, 
On  the  lake,  in  a  white  canoe.' 

"Annawan's  father  said, 
'A  bird  has  whispered  me — 
Who  walks  the  beach  at  night, 
Beneath  the  moon  and  stars, 
May  see,  upon  the  lake, 
A  white  canoe 
In  which  are  two — 
Answer,  my  son,  if  one  be  you?' 

"Then  answered  Annawan, 
'A  warrior's  soul  is  mine — 
I  will  not  falsify; 
The  bird  hath  told  thee  true  ; 
I  love  the  M aqua's  daughter, 

And  oft  at  night, 

By  dim  star-light, 
We  tryst,  in  a  white  canoe.' 


90 


"  'Listen,  my  son,  to  me. 
You  must  forego  your  suit, 
Nor  wed  the  Maqua  maid, 
Or  meet  her  day  or  night 
On  the  lake  or  land, 

That  to  my  ear 

These  tales  I  hear — 
Come  not — of  a  white  canoe.' 

"At  night  came  to  the  lake 
The  maiden,  young  and  fair, 
And  thus  self -queried  she, 
'Why  comes  not  Annawan, 
My  lover  leal  and  true, 

To  go  with  me, 

As  often  he 
Hath  gone,  in  our  white  canoe? 

"  'Oh  surely  he  has  come 
And  sails  the  lake  alone; 
And  though  the  wind  is  strong, 
And  rough  the  lake,  and  wild, 
I  must  his  barque  pursue, 

For  it  may  be 

He  looks  for  me 
On  the  lake,  in  his  white  canoe.' 

"Into  her  barque  she  sprang, 

And  left  the  shore  alone. 

Loud  shrieked  the  winds  and  moaned, 

Fierce  pealed  the  thunder's  crash, 

And  vivid  lightnings  threw 

Their  lurid  rays 

Where  madly  plays 
The  waves  with  her  white  canoe. 


"Wildly  she  shrieked  his  name, 
And  strained  her  eyes  for  him. 
The  thunders  drowned  her  cries, 
Her  eyes  the  lightning  dimmed, 
As  through  the  driving  spray 

Onward  she  flew 

In  tears  and  rue, 
O'er  the  lake  in  her  white  canoe. 

"At  last  with  hasty  strides 
Annawan  seeks  the  tryst, 
But  finds  Pequida  gone, 
And  likewise,  too,  her  barque; 
Whereon  his  heart  despairs, 

For  well  he  knows 

The  storm  that  blows 
Must  surely  wreck  her  white  canoe. 

"  'My  fair  Pequida,  come — 

Come  back  to  me!"  he  cries; 

But  answer  none  hears  he, 

Though,  glimmering  through  the  mist 

A  small  white  speck  appears 

Gliding  along, 

While  a  death  song 
Comes  back  from  the  white  canoe. 

"Into  his  canoe  then 
Annawan  quickly  sprang, 
And  bounded  o'er  the  wave, 
Pursuing  barque  and  song. 
And  though  he  saw  and  heard 

All  night  long 

Both  barque  and  song, 
Vain  his  chase  of  the  white  canoe. 


"At  morn  he  sought  his  sire, 
And  thus  upbraided  him: 
'  'Twas  you  that  made  her  grave 
Deep  in  the  Dismal  Swamp, 
Whither  I  too  shall  go, 

And  e'er  at  night 

You'll  see  a  light 
Where  we  paddle  our  white  canoe !' 

"So  saying,  he  turned  away, 
And  never  was  seen  again 
By  either  friend  or  foe; 
But  oft  at  night,  I  know, 
The  shade  of  youth  and  maid, 

With  fire-fly  lamp 

The  Dismal  Swamp 
Skim,  paddling  a  white  canoe." 


93 


LOVE 

I  know  not  when  you  crept  into  my  heart, 
Or  if  direct,  or  by  some  sinuous  way: 

I  only  know  you  came,  and  are  a  part 
Now  of  my  life  forever  and  for  aye. 

I  think,  may  be,  by  way  of  thy  soft  eyes, 
Or  by  thy  kindly,  gentle  mien  you  came: 

At  any  rate,  in  some  such  subtile  guise 

You  found  my  heart,  and  lit  the  mystic  flame. 

And  flowers  now  a  sweeter  fragrance  yield, 
The  songs  of  birds  are  sweeter  than  they  were, 

A  fairer  sheen  bedecks  both  wood  and  field, 
Softer  and  purple-hazed  the  atmosphere. 

If  this  be  love — as  it  must  surely  be — 

(Else  what  could  so  the  heart  and  soul  enthrall), 
Then  give  me  love,  for  love  is  ecstasy, 

When  it  so  casts  a  glamour  over  all. 


94 


A  VIOLET 

From  the  far  hills,  dear  wife,  I  send 
This  little  mountain  flower, 

Whose  tints  to  pure  cerulean  tend — 
Born  of  an  April  shower. 

And,  nestling  in  its  petals  tender, 

A  kiss  I  send  to  thee, 
Knowing  thou  wilt  homage  render 

Such  token,  love,  from  me. 

Nor  is  the  tint  its  petals  holds 
Truer,  dear,  to  it  than  I 

Unto  the  one  my  heart  enfolds 
With  a  love  that  cannot  die. 


95 


MEETING  AND  PARTING 

Hail!   farewell!   farewell  and  hail! 

Gladness,  sadness,  joy  and  woe, 
Beginning  and  end  of  an  old,  old  tale, 

Ah  me!    a  tale  we  all  must  know. 


MY  SORROW 

Because  who  was  the  world  and  all  to  me  is  dead, 
I  cannot  look  upon  a  little  golden  head, 
But  I  am  forced  to  turn  aside  and  weep  awhile, 
Or  hide  my  agony  behind  a  tear-veiled  smile, 
Lest  others,  seeing  it,  should  pause  and  pity  me, 
Or  mock  my  woe  by  staring  curiously. 

Oh !   it  is  hard  to  look  upon  the  little  face, 
Lying  there  mutely  in  its  snowy,  coffin  place, 
Knowing  no  more  we'll  hear  it  lisp  our  name,  or  feel 
Its  precious  arms  about  our  neck  in  rapture  steal. 


96 


THE  DOLL'S  DRESS 

I  found  this  garment  here  to-day, 

Moth-marked,  and  in  some  places  moulded: 

God  bless  the  little  hands  that  folded  it  away — 
The  little  hands,  themselves  now  folded! 


HEART  STRAINS 

O  heart  of  mine!   so  prone  to  sing; 

O  lips!    too  weak  to  utter 
The  songs  that  constantly  upspring, 

Only  to  flutter,  flutter, 
As  beats  the  'prisoned  bird  its  wing 

Against  the  potent  shutter, 

Impotent  I — impotent  we 

To  charm  the  world  with  minstrelsy. 

Yet  sing,  O  heart,  thy  songs  divine, 
More  oft  they  charm  than  pain  me — 

And  as  the  frailest  twig  the  vine 
Sustains,  so  they  sustain  me; 

For  as  love's  tendrils  hearts  entwine, 
Thy  subtile   strains   enchain   me, 
And  evil  thoughts  depart  in  haste 
At  sound  of  melodies  so  chaste. 


97 


VIRGINIA 

Down  by  the  cottage  stile, 

In  the  afterglow 
Of  the  summer  twilights 

In  the  long  ago, 
She  and  I  together 

Watched  the  roses  bloom — 
Now  their  fragrance  they  diffuse 

About  Virginia's  tomb. 

'Neath  the  elm's  foliage 

Stood  the  cottage  low 
Overlaced  with  creepers 

That  clambered  o'er  it  so 
You  couldn't  tell  the  color, 

Or  if  board  or  thatch, 
Though  now  and  then  a  glimmer 

Of  color  you  might  catch, 

Where  the  shifting  foliage, 

Shaken  by  the  breeze, 
Parted  for  a  moment, 

Showing  bits  of  frieze 
Or  a  patch  of   gable, 

Where  the  robins  sung 
'Neath  the  rakish  cornice 
Where  the  ivy  clung. 


98 


Climbing  roses  blossomed 

O'er  the  portico, 
The  path  was  made  of  pebbles 

To  the  stile  below, 
And  though  a  great  profusion 

Of  shrubbery  was  seen, 
Everything  was  tidy, 

The  garden  neat  and  clean. 

In  the  bowered  windows 

Potted  flowers  stood. 
Often  bent  above  them, 

In  a  pensive  mood, 
I  have  seen  Virginia 

As  lightsomely  I  strode 
Up  the  pebbled  pathway 

To  my  love's  abode. 

That  was  in  the  heyday 

Of  a  youthful  dream, 
Ere  our  little  shallop  neared 

The  rapids  of  life's  stream 
Where  the  cruel  waters  swept 

My  darling  from  my  side, 
Whereon  I  left  my  boat  to  drift, 

And  bowed  my  head  and  cried. 

And  often  in  the  gloaming, 

As  in  the  long  ago, 
I  wander  to  the  cottage  stile, 

Backward,  to  and  fro, 
Where  (maybe  it  is  fancy) 

I  sometimes  seem  to  see 
My  sweet  Virginia  tripping 

Down  the  pebble-path  to  me. 


99 


Then  when  the  vision  fadeth 

I  wander  to  a  grave 
Out  beyond  the  garden  wall, 

Where  with  my  tears  I  lave 
The  modest  little  flowers 

Blooming  o'er  the  spot, 
The  pink  and  purple  pansies 

And  sweet  forget-me-not. 


100 


"BROKE" 

The  friends  (?)  who  flocked  around  us  when 
Both  wealth  and  worth  were  ours 

Now  pass  around  us,  as  you've  seen 
Bees  shun  insipid  flowers. 

The  moth  that  flutters  'round  the  flame 

Till  it  ceases  to  burn 
Is  quick  indeed  to  shun  the  same, 

The  waning  light  to  spurn. 

What  can't  be  cured  we  must  endure, 

It  is  misfortune's  gift; 
It  is  the  penalty  the  poor 

Must  pay  for  lack  of  thrift. 


BURIED  HOPES 

O  blessed,  buried  hopes,  wherewith  are  laid 
The  cherished  loves  of  many  pleasant  dreams! 

How  oft  beside  thy  graves  we've  wept  or  prayed ! 
Nor  deemed  it  folly  then,  as  now  it  seems. 

As  now-  it  seems!  Nor  was  it  folly  then, 

For  what  were  life  without  these  dreams  of  ours? 

A  lonely,  barren  waste,  where  meets  the  ken 
No  pleasant  thing,  no  fragrant  flowers. 

And  even  now,  as  oft  we  stray  alone 

Amidst  these  buried  loves,   these  treasured   wrecks, 
We  sometimes  pause  beside  a  broken  stone 

To  trace  a  name  the  weary  heart  detects. 

O  heart  of  man!  and  weeping  woman's  too, 
But  for  these  fleeting,  transitory  gleams 

What  would  the  souls  of  weeping  mortals  do 
If  memory  no  more  diffused  her  beams? 


102 


HOPE  AND  DOUBT 

Some  where,  some  time,  I  know  not  when, 
My  heart  shall  wake  to  a  sweet  surprise 

When  one  steps  out  from  the  ranks  of  men, 
And  gazing  deep  down  into  my  eyes 

Shall  take  my  hand,  and  then,  ah  then! 

My  heart  shall  wake  to  a  sweet  surprise! 

We  women,  you  know,  will  dream  and  dream, 

Till  the  fate  that  lies  in  wrait  for  us  all 
Arrests  our  barque,  adrift  on  the  stream, 

And  binds  our  heart  in  a  golden  thrall. 
Will  it  be  for  weal,  or  the  fateful  gleam 

That  goes  before  a  woman's  fall? 
For  women,  you  know,  are  frail  in  love, 

While  men  are  wily,  and  prone  to  sue, 
And  swear  by  the  stars  and  all  above 

That  they  will  be  leal  and  true, 
And  we  sometimes  yield  all  to  prove 

That  we  can  be  leal  and  loyal  too. 

So,  in  the  awakening  I  may  know, 

Shall  I  find  the  love  and  peace  I  crave, 

Or  awake  to  a  life  of  shame  and  woe? 
Of  lust  and  sin  shall  I  be  a  slave? 

When  tempted  to  err,  shall  I  answer  no? 

God  pity  my  weakness,  and  make  me  brave! 


103 


DAN  AND  LIL 

"Which  do  you  want?"  said  Dan  to  me, 
Where  I  set  across  the  hearth  from  him  ; 

"Fer  sence  it's  got  we  can't  agree, 
We  may  as  well  git  things  in  trim. 

You  kin  hev  whichever  farm  you  will, 

An'  a  one-ha'f  int'rest  in  the  mill." 

Of  late  there'd  been  a  hitch,  somehow, 
An'  to  save  our  lives  we  couldn't  agree, 

An'  so  we'd  about  concluded,  now, 
Thet  it  wuz  better  to  part,  you  see — 

He  takin'  one  farm,  an'  me  t'other, 

Seemed  better'n  tryin'  to  live  t'gether. 

"An'  then  there  is  the  stock,  y'know — 
The  cattle,  an'  hosses,  sheep,  an'  such, 

You  kin  hev  your  shur  o'  them  also, 
Ur  ef  a  little  more,  I  don't  keer  much. 

An'  I  hope  you'll  find,  as  y'  think  y'  will, 

You'll  be  better  off  without  me,  Lil. 

"But  I'm  thinkin,"  said  he,  coughin'-like, 
An'  lookin'  jest  like  he  did  thet  day 

They  took  an'  buried  our  little  Ike, 
"Thet  mebby,  Lil,  you'd  better  stay 

In  the  old  place  here,  jest  es  it  is, 

You  keepin'  the  trinkets,  an'  things  o'  his. 


104 


"Per  I'm  shore,"  he  said,  coughin'  ag'in, 
"Ef  he'd  a  knowed,  afore  he  died, 

This  wuz  a  goin'  to  happen,  then 
You'd  a  got  all  his  in  the  divide; 

Which  knowin',  I'd  hate  to  hev  it  said 

I  didn't  respect  the  wish  o'  my  dead." 

I  didn't  durst  fer  to  look  at  him, 

Knowin'  he  wuz  lookin'  straight  at  me; 

My  heart  wuz  full,  my  eyes  wuz  dim 
Wi'  the  mist  an'  haze  of  memory; 

Fer  I  seed  our  lives  es  they  hed  bin 

'Fore  a  cross,  harsh  word  hed  entered  in — 

When  our  home  wuz  al'ys  full  of  cheer, 
An'  both  our  hearts  wuz  rilled  with  joy, 

He  a  settin'  thar,  me  a  settin'  here, 
Watchin'  th'  pranks  of  our  little  boy, 

Now  a  kissin'  Dan,  ur  a  makin'  me 

Set  with  him  on  his  daddy's  knee. 

An'  how  he'd  clap  his  han's  with  glee 
When  Dan  'u'd  pull  me  out  fer  a  romp, 

Es  he  of'en  did,  jest  fer  to  see 

Our   little   darlin'  laugh  an'   stomp! 

An'  then,  sometimes,  when  his  romp  wuz  o'er, 

He'd  fall  asleep  at  our  feet,  on  the  floor. 

Then  Dan  'u'd  come  an'  set  by  me, 
Takin'  my  hand  in  th'  tend'rest  way, 

An'  talk  of  our  joys,  an'  th'  love  thet  we 
Found   a  growin'  sweeter  day  by  day. 

"An'  now,"  I  thought,  with  a  sinkin'  heart, 

"Dan  an'  me  are  about  to  part." 


105 


An'  my  heart  kep*  swellin'  more  an'  more 
Es  one  a'ter  another  mem'ry  came, 

Till  I  got  up  an'  walked  the  floor 

Tryin'  to  think  which  wuz  to  blame; 

But  his  faults  wuz  hid  in  th'  fust  sweet  years, 

An'  c'u'dn't  be  seen  through  a  mist  o'  tears ! 

An'  when  my  heart  seemed  breakin'  with  pain 
I  saw  Dan  crossin'  th'  room  to  me, 

An'  to  save  my  life  I  can't  explain 
How  it  all  happened — I  know  thet  he 

Pressed  me  to  'is  heart,  an'  kissed  my  cheek, 

An'  when  at  last  I  wuz  able  to  speak, 

Sez  I  to  Dan'l,  "Say  what  y'  will— 
I  don't  want  this  ner  the  other  farm, 

Ner  a  one-ha'f  int'rest  in  th'  mill — 
I  jest  want  your  protectin'  arm 

To  shield  me  es  long  es  we  both  sh'll  live, 

An'  all  th'  love  yer  able  to  give." 


106 


POLICY— NOT  LOVE 

"The  woman  I  love,"  said  he,  "I  know 

Treats  me  well  for  the  tribute  I  bring, 

And  not  for  love's  sweet  sake  alone — 
Which  thought  is  a  bitter  thing." 

So  saying,  he  dropped  his  head,  and  I 

Marked  that  a  tremor  shook  him  through, 

And  for  his  grief  I  could  have  wept, 
And  for  what  some  women  will  do. 

"Ah,  truly  love  is  blind!"  I  said, 

"Or  will  not  see,  e'en  when  it  might; 

For  from  the  first  her  heart  he  read, 
But  closed  his  eyes  to  the  light !" 

And  because  he  loved  this  woman  so, 
From  morn  he  strove  till  day  grew  dim, 

Giving  love  and  wealth  without  return — 
Thus  daily  she  robbed  him! 


107 


A  MEMORY 

I  do  not  know  why  it  is  to-day 

I  dream  so  much  of  the  past, 
Why  it  is  I  turn  so  often  away 

From  the  present  to  that  last 
Sweet,  sad  tryst  by  the  river  side, 

Far  back  in  the  halcyon  days 
Of  my  youth-time,  where  my  'trothed  bride 

And  I  had  met  always. 

'Twas  autumn  time,  and  the  leaves  lay  brown, 

On  the  springy  mould  below, 
And  the  sunbeams,  creeping  through,  lay  down 

At  our  feet,  as  if  they'd  know 
Whereof  my  bride  betrothed  and  I 

Talked  in  that  low,  soft  strain, 
While  the  limpid  waters,  gliding  by, 

Chanted  a  sweet  refrain. 

Mayhap  some  subtile  touch  of  hers 

Hath  woke  the  dormant  strings 
Of  my  sad  heart,  and  brought  those  years 

Back  with  the  dear,  dead  things 
Which  I  had  thought  were  lost  beneath 

The  debris  of  life's  waste, 
So  that  the  sweetness  which  they  breathe 

I  once  again  might  taste. 

108 


'Tis  many  years,  though  now  they  seem 

So  many  months  instead, 
Since  that  last  tryst,  by  that  lone  stream, 

And  my  darling,  long  since  dead, 
Is  young  and  fair,  as  on  that  day, 

And  I  again  possess 
That  buoyancy  that  soars  away 

Beyond  all  pensiveness. 

'Tis  years  ago,  and  the  restless  tide 

Of  life  hath  crept  apace, 
Yet  the  golden  dreams  of  youth  abide 

With  me,  and  her  sweet  face, 
Crowned  with  its  wealth  of  auburn  hair 

I  sometimes  see,  and  feel 
Her  touch  (sweet  antidote  for  care!) 

Across  my  hot  brow  steal. 


109 


CUPID'S  WILES 

Cupid,  they  say,  one  summer  day 

Went  to  the  river  bathing, 
And  flung  his  bow  and  quiver, 

And  gauzy  clothes  beneath  a  rose 
On  the  margent  of  the  river. 

A  pretty  maid  that  morning  strayed 

Aimlessly  to  the  river, 
And  found  young  mischief  sleeping, 

And  then  and  there  she  laid  a  snare 
To  get  him  in  her  keeping. 

Beneath  the  rose  she  'spied  his  clothes, 
Likewise  his  bow  and  quiver, 

And  caught  them  to  her  heart, 

And  while  he  slept  she  slowly  crept 

A  little  ways  apart. 

Alas!   such  dreams  as  maidens'  schemes,, 
It  was  just  what  he  wanted — 

The  very  thing  at  which  he'd  aimed. 
He  knew  the  dart  lay  next  her  heart, 

Which  soon  must  be  inflamed. 

From  his  repose  he  slowly  rose, 

And  followed  slowly  after, 
Only  to  find  her  weeping. 

"My  pretty  maid,"  he,  laughing,  said, 
"Thou  hast  me  in  thy  keeping!" 

no 


FAITHLESS 

I  give  thee  back  thy  troth  to-night, 
And  in  return  my  own  I  claim. 

I  love  thee,  but  would  shun  the  blight 
I'd  suffer  if  I  shared  thy  name. 

Return  my  troth,  and  take  the  ring 
It  is  not  meet  that  I  should  wear, 

And  time,  maybe,  will  heal  the  sting 
A  woman's  pride  hath  planted  there. 


LIFE 

Sweet  is  that  life 
Whose  noon  is  pure  and  faultless  as  its  dawn, 

With  no  regrets  to  cast  their  sombre  hue 
Across  the  narrow  way  it  journeys  on, 

Or  steep  the  eyes  in  bitter  drops  of  rue. 

Life  is  at  best, 
Methinks,  no  sweeter  than  our  faintest  dream 

Of  its  felicities  makes  it  appear, 
And  we  should  nurture  tender  thoughts,  and  deem 

Ourselves  most  fortunate  when  hope  is  near. 

The  tide  of  life 
Has  many  rapids  that  our  barque  must  shoot, 

And  woe  betide  who  near  its  maelstroms  glides! 
It  is  at  best  a  treacherous  stream,  and  foot 

By  foot  let's  sound  it  from  our  shallop's  sides. 

There  is  a  way — 
A  narrow  channel,  which  if  we  will  seek", 

And  ship  aboard  the  Pilot  ever  near, 
Then  may  we  reach  the  harbor  without  leak 

Or  hap  of  any  kind  that  we  need  fear. 

Alas!  how  few — 
How  few  compared  to  those  who  hourly  embark 

Upon  the  bosom  of  this  treacherous  stream, 
Call  on  this  Pilot,  or  His  warnings  hark, 

Till  comes  the  wreck  and  drifts  their  boat  a-beam ! 


112 


LOOKING  BACKWARD 

The  days  are  drear,  the  nights  are  long, 
The  years  are  filled  with  vain  regret, 

And  there  are  catches  in  the  song 
We  sing  because  we  can't  forget. 

How  many  a  sigh  the  chasm  spans 
That  separates  us  from  the  past, 

Across  which  we,  on  knees  and  hands, 
Were  fain  to  creep,  could  we,  at  last! 


THE  POET 

The  flight  of  mind  is  never  higher 
Than  its  native  gifts  inspire; 
'Tis  genius  furnishes  the  wings 
On  which  the  poet  mounts  and  sings. 

The  adage  that  the  poet's  born 
Hath  never  of  its  truth  been  shorn, 
For  never  yet  the  poet  made 
To  the  succeeding  ages  played. 


THE  BANSHEE 

The  night  it  was  serene  and  moonlit, 
In  the  sere,  melancholy  October, — 
The  last  night  but  one  of  October, — 

And,  taking  my  viol,  "I'll  tune  it," 
I  said,  "to  comport  with  this  sober, 

Unutterable  mood  of  my  soul"  ; 

And  lo!    there  came  out  of  my  viol 

A  tone  I  had  felt  in  my  soul! 

And  I  said,  "That  is  surely  an  echo 
From  the  far,  remote  shores  of  Lethe, — 
The  dim,  indistinct  shores  of  Lethe, — 

The  plaint  of  Ulysses,  whom  Calypso 
Enslaved  on  the  Isle  of  Ogygia — 

Whom  the  fair  nymph  Calypso  enslaved, 

For  eight  weary  years  kept  encaved 

On  the  Isle  of  Ogygia,  enslaved." 

Then  something,  whatever  I  knew  not, 
Impelled  me  to  look  to'rd  the  window, — 
The  vine-arbored,  moon-checkered  window, — 

And  I  swear  upon  fancy  I  drew  not 
For  what  I  saw  there  peering  into 

My  room,  nor  for  the  wild,  uncanny  shriek 

Which  drove  the  blood  back  to  my  heart  from 
my  cheek, — 

O  that  wild,  weird,  unearthly,  uncanny  shriek! 


114 


Its  face  closely  pressing  the  casement, 

The  moonlight  falling  full  on  its  hair, — 
On  its  long,  dankish,  disheveled  hair, — 
Stood  something,  I  saw  with  amazement, 

A  woman  or  banshee,  I  swear! 
Then,  shrieking  again,  it  departed, 
And  I  let  fall  my  viol,  and  started 
With  fright  as  it  shrieked  and  departed. 

And  I  said,  "That  is  surely  an  omen, 
Some  evil  portent  I  am  sure, — 
A  dread  Scottish  banshee  I'm  sure, — 
The  wraith  of  some  unhappy  woman 

Come  out  of  her  sphere,  to  allure 
Some  precious  soul  of  my  household  away!" 
(And  my  lips  they  grew  ashen  and  gray) 
"Lure  the  soul  of  some  loved  one  away!" 

I  sighed  as  I  reached  for  the  shattered, 
Wrecked  viol  that  lay  at  my  feet, — 
The  riddle  I'd  dropped  at  my  feet, — 
Of  whose  utter  ruin  it  mattered 

But  little,  since  soon  I  must  greet 
That  grim-visaged  monster  that  enters 
The  fold  where  affection  all  centers — 
O  the  grim  monster  our  love-fold  that  enters ! 


VISIONS 

Oh!   forms  of  beauty,  which  adorn  our  dreams, 
Oh!   mystic  sounds  of  music  sweet  and  rare, 

How  unattainable,  which  ever  seems 

So  near,  O  thou  more  subtile  things  than  air! 

Why  is  it  so — why  is  the  poet  given 

Glimpses  of  things  no  mortal  can  portray? 

Why  are  these  sounds  across  his  senses  driven 
To  linger  for  a  while  and  pass  away? 

And  why  those  forms  evanish  while  his  hands 
In  rapturous  longing  are  stretched  out  to  them? 

Than  which  'twere  easier  to  count  the  ocean's  sands 
Than  'twere  to  touch  their  garment's  hem. 

But  so  it  is — the  poet's  dream  is  vain; 

He  may  see,  but  may  not  paint  these  faces; 
May  hear,  but  may  not  sound  one  single  strain 

Seen  and  heard  in  Fancy's  mystic  places. 


n6 


JEPHTHAH'S  VOW 

Oh !   rash  man  that  I  was,  to  blindly  vow 

A  sacrifice  to  God,  well  knowing  how 

Like  her  'twould  be  her  father  first  to  greet 

With  timbrels,  song  and  mazy-moving  feet — 

The  first  on  whom  mine  eyes  shouldst  light  when  I, 

Returning  from  the  conquest,  must  rely 

On  fate,  or  chance  for  what  must  first  appear 

To  greet  the  vision.    Love  for  my  child  and  fear 

Of  His  just  wrath,  should  I  fail  of  my  vow, 

War  in  my  heart.    Ah  me!   well  wot  I  now 

The  throes  that  rent  poor  father  Abraham 

Ere  he  espied  the  thorn-entangled  ram: 

Oblation  providentially  ensnared, 

He  might  the  sacrifice  and  grief  be  spared. 

Oh!   baleful  chance,  O  fate!   why  didst  decree 
My  daughter  first  of  all  that  I  shouldst  see? 
Would  mine  eyes  had  been  holden — that  my  sight 
Had  been  darkened  to  the  densest  night, 
Ere  on  my  darling  they  were  led  to  light! 

O  fate!   O  chance!   O  cursed  chance  and  fate! 
Alas!   I  see  my  error  now  too  late! 


"7 


SIN'S  PUNITION 

Ever  I've  been  the  mark  of  fate, 
Fared  illy  at  the  hands  of  Time ; 

Either  a  bit  too  soon  or  late 
Has  kept  me  ever  out  of  chime. 

Never  a  time,  far  off  or  near, 
Clouds  intercepted  not  my  view; 

Never  my  steps  led  anywhere, 
It  was  not  to  regret  or  rue. 

My  heart  was  never  free  from  sighs, 
My  soul  was  never  free  from  dread ; 

Never  but  stalked  before  my  eyes 
Some  horrid  phantom  of  the  dead. 

I've  walked  the  crowded  streets,  and  been 
As  lonely  as  in  woodlands  drear; 

I've  stood  in  forests  dense  and  seen 
Gay  myriads  moving  ev'rywhere. 

I've  loved,  nor  had  my  love  returned; 

I've  prayed,  nor  had  it  given  heed; 
Sought  Wisdom  in  her  haunts,  and  learned 

I'd  missed  this  most  excessive  need. 

My  way  across  life's  waste  I've  found 
Entangled  with  a  prickly  growth; 

Each  step  I  take  invites  a  wound, 
Till  to  proceed  I'm  growing  loth. 


118 


Yet  when  I  would  return  I  find 

A  yawning  chasm  intervenes 
Between  the  years  that  lie  behind, 

And  present,  uninviting  scenes. 

A  gleam  of  hope,  once  now  and  then, 
Far  in  the  distance  I  have  caught, 

But  always  it  has  faded  when, 

Forespent  and  faint,  I  reach  the  spot. 

Yet  daily  I  am  touching  hands 

With  those  who've  found  the  better  way, 
Whose  daily  walk  and  life  commands, 

I  find,  what  I'm  denied  to-day. 

Such  is  the  soul  that  dwells  within 
The  ruin  which  its  own  has  wrought, 

And  ponders  on  the  might  have  been 
Had  Youth  the  other  pathway  sought. 


A  MEMORY 

Let's  see:    It  was  ever  so  long  ago 

That  she  and  I  sat  here  together; 
How  many  years  though,  I  do  not  know, 

Though  I  know  'twas  autumn  weather. 

'Twas  autumn  I  know,  for  I  made  a  crown 

Of  the  red  maple  leaves  that  lay  at  her  feet, 

Or  fell  in  her  lap  as  they  circled  down — 
Less  bright  than  the  rose  on  her  cheek. 

'Twas  autumn,  I  know,  for  the  chestnuts  brown 
Peeped  out  from  the  burs  on  the  swaying  bough, 

The  winds  playing  over  which  shook  them  down — 
Oh !    I  wish  she  were  here  with  me  now. 


120 


MY  DEAD 

Poor  little  hands!  they  are  folded  now, 
Oh!   how  many  times  their  loving  touch 

Have  caressed  and  soothed  my  aching  brow — 
Poor  little  hands  T  there  are  no  more  such. 

Poor  pale  lips !   now  so  mute  and  still ! 

No  unkind  word  fell  from  them  ever. 
Where  they  could  not  warm  they  would  not  chill, 

Or  could  not  bind  they  would  not  sever. 

Dear  little  heart!   it  is  pulseless  now; 

How  warmly  it  beat  for  others'  woes, 
How  faithful  it  was  to  the  lightest  vow — 

Only  the  heart  of  another  knows. 

Dear  little  feet !   they  were  weary  when 

The  angel  came  for  her,  but  they 
Gladly  answered  the  summons  then — 

Would  they  could  answer  mine  to-day. 


121 


LOST  LEOLINE 

Oh!    bitter  the  day  and  cold, 
Oh!   stormy  the  night  and  long, 

When  my  lost  love,  my  Leoline, 
Went  down  in  the  billows  strong. 

Oh !   why  should  thy  waves  return 
To  thy  bosom  again,  O  sea! 

When  my  lost  love,  my  Leoline, 
Can  never  come  back  to  me? 


123 


BITTER  MEMORIES 

I've  jest  bin  down  in  the  orchard  there, 
An'  I  tell  you  what,  it  ain't  no  use 

To  make  believe  'at  we  don't  care 

Ef  things  don't  turn  out  es  we'd  choose. 

Fer  when  we've  lost  some  cherished  thing, 
Er  missed  our  way  to  some  one's  heart, 

I  can't  he'p  thinkin'  thet  the  sting 
Leaves  in  our  after  life  a  smart. 

An'  when  revisitin'  old  scenes, 

An'  trampin'  'long  the  old  by-ways, 

Over  the  hills,  an'  cross  ravines 
'At  we  have  trod  in  by-gone  days, 

Somehow  we  can't  he'p  pausin'  here, 
Er  hurryin'  past  some  object  there 

'At  brings  to  mind  some  memory  dear, 
Er  birthplace  of  some  bitter  care. 

A  tree  whose  leafy  boughs  we've  seen 
Sheddin'  its  ample  shadders  round, 

While  shafts  of  sunlight  slipped  between 
An'  danced  an'  quivered  on  the  ground, 

It  may  be  is  the  thing  we'd  shun, 
Er  Mecca,  may  be,  we  have  sought, 

As  the  gauntlet  of  the  past  we  run, 
With  sweet  or  bitter  memories  fraught. 


153 


AN  IDYL 

Here,  poor  tired,  aching  heart,  just  here, 

Beneath  this  friendly  spreading  beechen  limb, 
We'll  pause  awhile,  repressing  memory's  tear — 

Memory  or  time  or  distance  cannot  dim, 
But  grows  more  sweet  or  bitter  with  each  year 

As  joy's  cup  or  sorrows  nears  the  brim, 
Albeit,  the  remembrance  of  a  bier 

Doth  shroud  our  lives  as  did  the  grave-clothes  him. 

Here  in  the  smooth,  light-clouded  bark  appear 
Two  names,  with  day  and  date  all  neatly  done, 

Showing  the  wear  and  tear  of  lapsing  years 
Hath  plainer  made  the  handiwork  of  one 

Whom  we  have  mourned  with  scarce  surcease  of  tears 

Since  the  still,  cold  lips  mutely  sealed  our  fears! 


ADDRESS  TO  A  MUMMY 

Come,  tell  me,  Mummy,  if  you  can, 
How  many  times  hath  reappeared 
Thy  soul  in  reptile,  beast,  and  bird 

Since  it  cast  off  the  guise  of  man? 

And  when  he  rendered  his  decree, 
Did  Osiris  enumerate 
The  sins  that  it  should  expiate 

Ere  it  returned  again  to  thee? 

Who  wert  thou  ere  bereft  of  soul? 

What  was  thy  calling,  what  thy  caste? 

Between  thy  present  and  thy  past 
Couldst  count  how  many  ages  roll? 

If  one  of  those  of  priestly  caste, 

What  of  that  esoteric  lore 

You  held  above  both  rich  and  poor? — 
A  menace  dire  in  that  dim  past ! 

Perchance  wert  of  those  Pharaoah 
Commissioned  to  enhance  the  task 
Of  those  whom  Moses  came  to  ask 

Might  with  him  three  days'  journey  go? 

Yet  scarcely  so,  for  doubtless  those 
Were  caught  in  that  catastrophe 
Along  with  others  in  the  sea, 

When  God  bade  the  walled  waters  close. 


125 


Well,  it  were  no  far-fetched  conceit 
To  fancy  you  witnessed  the  test 
When  Aaron's  rod  devoured  the  rest — 

All  writhing  serpents  at  their  feet! 

And  if  not  there,  of  course  you  passed 

Through  those  dire  plagues  which  Aaron's  rod, 
( Mirac'lously  endowed  of  God) 

O'er  all  the  land  but  Goshen  cast. 

Thou  canst  not  be  that  Potiphar 

Whose  wife  had  fain  debauched  the  Jew? 
Well,  somehow  I  am  glad  that  you 

Were  not,  and  knew  naught  of  her. 

Where  were  you  when  ( tradition 'ly) 

The  moon  increased  to  that  extent 

The  Libyans,  on  rebellion  bent, 
Frightened,  renewed  their  fealty? 

Is  it  not  irksome  to  be  wound 

So  closely  in  a  winding  sheet? 

Heavens!    how  can  you  stand  your  feet, 
And  hands,  and  all  so  tightly  bound? 

Didst  live  what  time  that  King,  Kakan, 

(Who  worship  of  the  bull,  Apsis, 

First  introduced  in  old  Memphis) 
His  celebrated  reign  began? 

Where  was  thy  seat  of  empire,  pray? 

Was  it  at  This?     Didst  thou  live  there? 

That  much,  at  least,  you  might  declare — 
Canst  thou  not  answer  yes  or  nay? 

126 


Where  wert  when  Rameses,  the  Great, 
Led  forth  his  mighty  hosts  to  war, 
By  land  and  sea  to  Ganges,  far? 

Was  that  before  your  time?    Please  state. 

Perhaps  wert  living  when  the  Nile 
Ran  honey  one  and  ten  whole  days 
(Believing  what  Manetho  says), 

Quaffing  it  daily  all  the  while! 

It  could  not  be-  you  helped  to  make 
That  enigmatic  thing,  the  Sphinx; 
Scarcely  could  be  so  old,  methinks, 

Though  eons  wander  in  thy  wake. 

Was  there  an  ante-death  compact 
Whereby  thy  soul,  on  its  return 
From  its  thousands  of  years  sojourn 

Elsewheres,  shouldst  find  its  house  intact? 

Well,  if  you  will  not  answer,  then 
Suppose  we  must  forego  our  quest, 
Though  we  could  relish  with  much  zest 

Who  thou  wert,  where  didst  live,  and  when. 

What!    Come  now,  Mummy,  know  a  jest 
(Even  when  of  all  grossness  stripped), 
From  lips  through  which  a  soul  hath  slipped, 

However  apt,  imparts  no  zest. 

Whose  reign?    Usertesen — the  Third! 

Planned  that  great  Labyrinth  and  Lake? 

Well,  for  thy  very  age's  sake 
We  must,  of  course,  accept  thy  word. 


127 


Yet  ne'ertheless,  some  doubt  remains, 
For  that  sounds  very  like  a  lie; 
If  so,  you'll  find  out  by  and  by 

One  Satan  down  in  Hades  reigns. 


TO  THE  FROGS 

Wherever  stagnant  pools  or  streams  are  found, 
Or  mucky  fen  or  marshy  meadow,  ye 
Are  heard  to  croak  and  murmur  drear'ly, 

Lulling  the  silence  with  a  dreamy  sound, 

Thy  red  throats  quaking  with  the  grating  strain 
That  slides  out  brokenly  across  the  plain, 
From  lungs  forespent  with  ceaseless  murmuring, 
That  nature  gave  ye  not  the  power  to  sing. 

From  morn  till  noon  and  noon  till  night  again, 
And  constantly  all  through  the  night  till  morn, 
With  sober,  solemn  look  and  mien  forlorn, 

Ever  the  same  ye  murmur  and  complain, 

Blinking  the  stars,  or  sheathing  from  the  sun 
Thy  leaden  orbs,  since  time  and  tide  begun. 


WESTERN  PLAINS 

A  brooding  silence  hovers  over  all 

This  vast  expanse  of  undulating  plain, 
Whence  one  is  conscious  of  that  voiceless  call 

(Ye  all  have  caught  it  time  and  time  again), 

Soul  beckoning  to  soul  across  the  waste 

That  intervenes  between  the  Now  and  Then, 

One  soul  urging  the  other  soul  to  haste, 
Yet  never,  never  intimating  when 

The  waters  of  the  dreaded  stream  shall  tear 
Life  from  its  precarious  moorings  here, 

And  thence  toward  the  mystic  harbor  bear 

It,  'spite  of  wife's,  or  child's,  or  mother's  tear. 

Not  yon  vast,  blue,  inverted  bowl  alone 
Is  it  obstructs  my  human  vision's  range; 

God  curbed  my  sight,  lest  unto  me  be  known 
The  image  of  the  thing  to  which  I  change. 

And  though  ('tis  claimed)  we  may  sometimes  behold 

Our  spirit-selves  projected  into  view, 
We  doubt  if  these  are  yet  the  same  we're  told 

That  we  shall  wear  when  we  are  made  anew. 

There  are  so  many  forms  in  earth  and  sky, — 
So  many,  many  kinds  of  beast  and  bird, — 

I  wonder,  now,  if  I  shall  still  be  I 
When  the  loud  blast  of  the  last  trump  is  heard? 

X29 


Each  sect  doubts — each  and  all — the  other's  creeds, 
And  most  of  them  Metempsychosis  flouts, 

Yet  he  who  reads,  and  ponders  what  he  reads, 

May  find  himself  at  last  hemmed  in  with  doubts. 

What  is  to  be  is  not  within  the  ken 

Of  man,  and  speculation  reigns  supreme; 

Yet  each  must  feel  there  is  beyond  a  Then 

Which  shall,  somehow,  approach  his  life-long  dream. 

Eternity  abuts  upon  the  lines 

Which  circumscribe  the  narrow  plains  of  Time, 
Whose  swiftly  flowing  tide  an  outlet  finds 

In  the  dark  stream  we  cross  to  the  sublime. 

Wrapped  in  a  silence  which  is  all  their  own, 
Guarding  the  secrets  of  their  mystic  past, 

These  plains  suggest  to  Fancy  things,  if  known, 
Would  cause  the  mind  to  pause,  and  shrink,  aghast. 

O  crypt-like  Future,  whence  no  light  projects 
A  radiant  gleam  along  Life's  darkened  way, 

Vouchsafe  one  glimmer  till  my  soul  detects 
My  Master's  footprints  in  the  sand,  I  pray! 


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THE  ERRANT  DOLLAR. 

As  fleeting  as  time,  as  errant  as  air, 

Not  pausing  for  story  or  song, 
I  sigh  as  you  slip  from  my  hand  to  fare 

On  your  mission  of  right  or  wrong. 

Mine  for  a  moment,  and  then  you're  away 

On  your  errand  of  good  or  evil, 
Relieving  the  wants  of  a  saint  to-day, 

To-morrow  glad'ning  the  Devil, 

As  into  the  till  of  the  bar  you  clink 
From  the  hand  of  the  maudlin  youth, 

Who  dallies  and  drains  to  the  dregs  the  drink 
In  the  drunkard's  school,  forsooth. 

From  the  till  to  the  bank,  and  then,  may  be, 

You'll  burn  a  Samaritan's  palms, 
Till  he  findeth  a  place  for  charity, 

And  the  giving  of  worthy  alms. 

Thence  to  the  butcher's  or  the  grocer's  till 
You  will  find  your  path  straightway, 

From  whence  you  will  go  to  cancel  a  bill 
That  he  finds  he  needs  must  pay. 

Then  around  to  the  church,  maybe,  you'll  swing, 

And  drop  in  the  deacon's  tray, 
As  he  passeth  it  round  while  the  choir-folk  sing, 

And  the  devoutly  righteous  pray. 

Thence  to  cancel  the  debt  the  miser  holds 

Against  the  house  of  the  Lord, 
Who  hides  you  amidst  the  convolute  folds 

Of  his  purse,  and  sneaks  for  his  hoard. 


THE  PHANTOM  THOUGHT 

Away,  dread  thing!   thou  dark,  unbidden  guest; 

Unheralded  and  unexpected  thou 
Too  oft  hath  broken  in  upon  my  rest, 

And,  passing,  left  thy  shadow  on  my  brow. 

Thou  dost  the  very  realm  of  hope  invade, 

Casting  a  ling' ring  shadow  over  all ; 
Scarcely  one  single  move  in  life  I've  made, 

Thou  wert  not  there  to  flaunt  a  fun'ral  pall. 

Light  hearted,  humming  some  quick-moving  air, 
I've  left  my  home  at  morn  with  lightsome  stride, 

Feeling  how  very  bright  the  world,  and  fair, 
When,  lo !  you  came,  and  on  my  lips  it  died ! 

No  place  so  sacred  thou  dost  not  intrude; 

No  heart  from  thy  disturbing  presence  free; 
I  mind  me  at  my  bridal  thou  wert  rude 

Enough  to  show  an  open  grave  to  me. 

Between  my  loved  ones  and  my  eyes  you  flash 

A  vision  of  a  coffin  or  a  bier, 
And  from  my  lips  the  cup  of  gladness  dash, 

And  in  its  stead  tender  a  draught  of  fear. 

No  mercy  on  the  doting  heart  hast  thou, 
But  harry  it  with  scenes  of  darkest  hue, 

Wherein  its  cherished  ones  are  made  to  bow 
To  stern  adversity,  and  plead  and  sue. 

Avaunt,  thou  dark  intruder,  nor  return 
Till  the  last  sputter  of  life's  flick' ring  ray 

To  point  with  low'ring  brow  and  finger  stern 

To'rd  that  waste  blackness  whitherto  we  stray! 

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EPIGRAMS 

Time  from  his  throne  hath  looked  ahead  in  vain 

For  lo  these  eons  past  to  glimpse,  perchance, 
The  dreaded  herald  of  his  closing  reign. 

Now  it  is  strange  the  path  we  daily  tread 
Lies  straight  before  us  to  the  utmost  end, 
Yet  we  may  never  see  a  step  ahead ! 

Oceans  embrace  our  earth,  a  liquid  band 
Twines  it  about, — seeming  anomaly, — 
Round-rolling  in  the  hollow  of  God's  hand. 

Is  it  not  strange  that  we  can  never  retrace 

Our  way  to  youth  and  childhood's  aureate  plain, 
Except  as  Fancy  leads  us  to  the  place? 

Think — for  a  moment  think — a  single  breath, 

A  tiny,  subtile,  fleeting  breath  alone 
Is  all  that  stands  between  us  here  and  Death! 

From  the  high  summit  of  my  early  dreams 
Might  I  look  down  upon  myself  to-day, 
Mine  eyes  should  fail,  so  faint  Hope's  beacon  gleams. 

Man's  egotism  's  such,  his  ego  swells 

To  the  conceit  that  he  is  one  with  Him 
Who  made  the  world  where  he,  the  pigmy,  dwells ! 

133 


How  from  his  seat  upon  the  eons,  Time 
Smiles  at  the  eager  haste  of  puny  man 
To  end  his  little  chores  of  Love  and  Crime! 

Might  I  look  in  upon  my  neighbor's  heart, 

Where,  crouching,  hidden,  lurks  his  secret  past, 
I'd  scarce  see  aught  at  which  mine  own  should  start. 

Why  should  the  world  accord  its  praise  alone 

To  him  within  whose  heart  Chance  drops  the  key 
That  liberates  the  song  locked  in  its  own? 

Left  to  the  mercy  of  his  chief  desires, 

Man  scarce  would  pause  short  of  the  bestial  plain, 
Except  as  failed  the  fuel  feeds  his  fires. 

No  stream  so  deep,  there  is  no  shallow  shoal; 
No  chain  so  strong,  there  is  no  faulty  link ; 
No  love  but  yields  illicit  thoughts  some  toll. 

The  Rib  from  which  Almighty  woman  made 

Chanced  not,  methinks,  to  be  of  common  clay, 
But  dust  from  whence  some  sweetest  rose  decayed! 


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